


How? Why?

by VictoriaWoodmaine



Series: Of Consequences and Aftermaths [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-24
Updated: 2013-09-24
Packaged: 2017-12-21 06:17:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 24,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/896834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VictoriaWoodmaine/pseuds/VictoriaWoodmaine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Sherlock is gone, John puts his thoughts and feelings down into a diary on his laptop.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. S.

**Author's Note:**

> This is John's POV as promised.  
> Please don't get confused, as to some people I have told that 'June 16th' would be the follow up. But I intend that to be the last bit of John's POV, so there will be these other chapters first, starting three days after the fall.#
> 
>  
> 
> I do not give permission to repost, reproduce or archive this fanfic in part or in it's entirety to any other website except with prior written consent provided by myself, nor any profit be made from any of these works under any circumstances whatsoever.

If this is ever found by anyone else:

You dare to read it at your own risk, because- should I ever find out you did- I won't guarantee for your safety.

I am a soldier. Be aware of that!

  
  
This is the most personal account of events that I ever wrote down and it's intended only for one person to read, although I am aware that that is impossible.

Still I address this directly to you, Sherlock, for who else is there to understand how I really feel? Who would I actually dare to tell?

  
This is about you and me.  
So.

  
  
Dear Sherlock,  
  
I'm not sure you would understand how I feel right now.

  
It's been four days now and I haven't spoken a word to anyone.

I am aware that it must be extremly painful and disturbing for the people around me to see me in a state like this.

The look in Mrs Hudson's eyes will probably haunt me for the rest of my days.

I feel empty. Like I'm frozen in time.

I see no point in getting up, eating, speaking or even looking at anything in particular.

I just sit here and stare.

Into nothing, because there's nothing to see.

No piles of paper, no empty cup of tea, no violin abandoned on the armchair, no stacks of books about to collapse like some intellectual jenga in the middle of the sitting room.

No experiments on the kitchen table.

No eyeballs in the microwave.

No cigarettes.

No suit jackets draped over chairs.

No coat.

No scarf.

Nothing.

Agonizingly, paralyzingly nothing.

That's what I feel like- paralyzed.

I re-live those three minutes over and over again and everytime, I think that there had to be something, anything that I could have done.

But I'm frozen in motion, unable to move.

I just stand there and watch- utterly helpless.

I feel that there is something wrong, something I missed. And that I see it, but I don't observe.

I am no consulting genius and I never will be.

And I will never be able to tell the one- the only one- how much he meant to me in the end.

I know that my therapist wants me to write things down, but I'm not ready for that, yet. I can't face it.

I'm a soldier, I have seen men die before, I've lost them as they lay beneath my hands staring at me, pleading for help.

I have faced death myself, seen it and felt it and defeated it. But I cannot- I just cannot get over this. Tell myself 'It'll get better and easier' and fool myself into believing that one day I can go back to normal.

I can't.

I just simply can't.

Because 'normal' was the thing that almost killed me the first time, thinking of the gun in my desk drawer.

The gun that I now-as a precaution- handed over to Greg, just to get myself rid of the possibility and temptation to do something, that I know would disappoint not only myself and my family, but also the man himself, who showed me that there is so much more, so much better things to do and see and feel.

It would be like a punch in the face to the one man who pulled me out of a depression and gave my life a new purpose.

If we would meet again upon the meadows of heaven- and that image manages to make me smile for the first time ever since the day, because Sherlock Holmes, the greatest detective of all and full-hearted atheist would probably wear the biggest frown upon his face- if he found himself there, I wouldn't be able to look him in the eye.

So I try to move on.

I try.

I do the thing I always did ever since my first deployment: Shoulders back, chin up and carry on, Captain Watson.

Whatever happens, carry on.

  
And even if I know that there is always something to live for, something that makes life joyful and exciting- I fail to see how I can ever find something so special, like what we had, ever again.

The time with you will forever be the time of my life, Sherlock.

I wish you could be here to hear me say it.

I owe you so much.

And I will never, not even for a second, believe that none of this was ever real.

Just the thought that you would have deceived me is so painful that I fear it will suffocate me if I stick to it for too long.

I didn't cry.

I will not cry, for that is something I learned a long time ago not to give in to.

Crying won't make it better.

And to see a fellow soldier cry, your batallions very own doctor, will negatively affect everyones moral.

So I forbid myself to cry.

Push your emotions down as far as possible and take care of them later.

Problem is, that works only, if there is a time called 'later' and 'after'. The time when you're home again and all the nightmares can come crushing in upon you. That is the time you can allow yourself to crumble and weep. And I had my share of that.

  
This time there is no 'later' or 'after'.

This pain will never fade, the time won't come where I will not miss you.

I lost my home, my purpose and my joy.

But most of all I lost my best friend.

The best man that I have ever known, even if you were an annoying git sometimes.

The most part you were the most fascinating, admirable man I ever knew and ever will know and to think that there will be no more such days where we have breakfast together, both engulfed in reading, drinking tea and discussing facts about a case...

It hurts so much, Sherlock.

It just hurts so fucking much.

  
I see no light at the end of this tunnel, but I promise you I will carry on, for I believe it would hurt you most if you could see me fall apart like this.

I remember how proud you were when you cured me of my limp.

The joy in your eyes as if someone had offered you permission to conduct every possible experiment you could think of. Your very own version of christmas morning.

I will never forget those little moments, when the adrenaline ceased, we got our breaths back and all that remained was the two of us.

The silence that followed the storm was always my favourite.

The nights filled with brandy and logfire and violin music, watching telly and deducing the quiz show candidates' motivations.

The bickering.

Mrs Hudson in her nighty frowning upon us for making so much noise.

Tripping over piles of books and tasting sour milk in my tea.

Toast and beans upon plates, sitting between beakers and notebooks and the times you sneaked over to the cupboard to steal a cookie.

I will never forget that Sherlock.

For it has filled me with a warmth I haven't experienced elsewhere before in my life.

Not at home growing up, not at uni or in the army.

Something about this flat made it my true and genuine home and only now have I fully understood what that was.  
  
 **You.**


	2. Broken Soldier

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John reflects about his past and how meeting Sherlock Holmes changed so much of his future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am afraid that, at the moment, it's only getting worse. But that's the way it feels when realisation dawns on you, isn't it?
> 
> I'm sorry for the feels.
> 
> And THANK YOU all for your lovely comments on the previous part and on the first chapter of this- it's what keeps me going! You are all just lovely!!

 

 

 

 

I never told you this, Sherlock, but if I had never taken that walk through the park on this particular morning, meeting Mike and then you, I don't know...I really don't know where I would have ended. Or how.

 

I would have probably taken up a postion in a GP's and worked and lived the most boring life anyone can imagine.

  
The  only distinctive feature or talent I ever had was that urge to help other people.

 

As a kid, in school, choosing medicine as profession, serving Queen and country.

 

All that was driven by my need to make sure other people were well. Maybe because I never knew what it was like to be sincerely well myself.

 

You know about Harry and what growing up with her was like. You know about my parents and the incident with my uncle. I have told you all that, but I never said a word about what it did to me.

 

To see her broken and unsure about how to cope with the abuse- that was when I first felt the urge to be able to help people, make them feel better. Physically or mentally.

 

I did my best with Harry, knowing today what a huge burden I lay upon my 14-year old self to think I could actually mend her. I tried anyway. And I tried ever since.

 

I understand why she drinks and why she is incapable to trust people genuinely- even her own wife.

 

And it pains me so much to watch her go through all that again and again whenever the hangover fades and she realizes what she has done again and why.

 

And I can't help her.

 

I tried so hard, but I can't help her.

 

I just don't know how.

 

I always feel like I'm letting her down and that she lets me down in return not knowing how to express what's really going on in her mind.

 

I love her so much and I know that she loves me just the same, but still there is a distance between us, upon which we agreed a long time ago and which is the reason why I couldn't live with her after my return from Afghanistan.

 

 

Because sometimes she just can't stand my presence.

 

I am still a man in the end. And that's enough to make her feel uncomfortable.

 

She told me how irrational it is and how pathetic she feels acting like this, but it's ok. Some things I suppose can never be fixed.

 

So ever since I remember, I tried to heal and repair what was possible and lost myself in that. Almost as if I was hypnotised, I ran from problem to problem, from patient to patient, from soldier to soldier trying to create a sort of perfect little world that I could never have for myself.

 

I relished in that and I suppose that says a lot about my own addictive potential.

When even that was taken away from me, torn away by a bullet in the Afghan desert, leaving me crippled and with too much time to think about my own situation, I finally realized how lonely I really was.

Of course there were army and university mates I sometimes bumped into, quite literally. But the feeling of belonging somewhere where it was okay to simply be me, where I was enough, where it didn't matter if I had a limp and was practically useless but for medical emergencies- that was something I only just discovered on a sunny Tuesday morning. The morning I took that walk in the park, not knowing that my life was about to change so drastically, take such an enormous turn and lead me to the place I have been looking for all my life.

  
I'm not speaking about 221b, Sherlock, because 221b would just be another flat in another building in central London if it weren't for you.

You are what makes it so special- my home, and you are the reason I finally felt safe and at ease with myself after so many years.

You didn't care about my limp.

Clearly it was an inconvenience and you happily cured it in a blip, but you never looked at me the way everybody else did- with pity in your eyes.

You didn't see the damaged soldier.

You were interested in the story behind it- no, you already knew the story behind it the moment you laid eyes upon me- but you were fascinated by the cause and the mechanism behind it.

You gave me the feeling that it was alright to be impaired. Nothing to be ashamed of. Nothing that made me lesser.

That you liked me nonetheless if I had a limp or a bad shoulder or were not as brilliant as you.

I had yet to learn that you were just as alone and misunderstood as I was.

People saw- but they didn't bother themselves to observe what was really behind that mask or that cane. They accepted the story of the former drug addict or the broken soldier, were merely impressed by it and went on with their own lives, which is alright.

I don't blame them because I know best that you cannot make everybody happy and well. You cannot care about everyone.

  
What still marvels me is the fact that in between all those people I found the one that would finally take a closer look and like what he saw.

I cannot express how grateful I am that you wanted me as a friend and companion, that you trusted me with your life within hours of our first meeting.

I can't grasp the scope of what that means to me, Sherlock.

Of what you mean to me.

You have only been gone for 3 days and I still somehow believe that you are going to waltz through that door as you always did any moment now.

It will take a long time before I will finally realize that you won't come back.

That I will never have the chance to tell you how much I owe you.

How much you have given me.

  
  
You healed me, Sherlock.


	3. Responsibilities

Two questions going round and round inside of my head all the time:  
  
 _You used to consult me in many situations, seeking my advice, why not then?_  
  
 _What happened that made you believe it was impossible for me to help?_  
  
  
  
There is one thing I will never forgive myself for, Sherlock.

One thing.

And that is that I wasn't a better friend to you.

Why else would you have left me out?

I have been asking myself the same question over and over again since you died: how could I not see this coming?

How could I possibly overlook how emotionally distressed you really were?

  
Sherlock, I know how important the work always was to you. I understand that- being trapped inside that brilliant mind of yours- sometimes you just did not know how to cope

with certain things or what would be a 'normal human emotional reaction'.

I know you pretended not to care about other peoples opinion, but that their insults didn't go unnoticed by you. That they bothered and hurt you just like everybody else.

You did have a heart, a big one in fact, despite what the public thinks. You have proved that to me many times.

You weren't as oblivious about things as you wanted people to believe you were. And I saw that look in your eyes when more and more of our so-called 'friends' started to doubt you.

It was not only fear inside of them- the realization that your worst nightmare probably had come true, that Moriarty had beaten you in this stupid game you played and destroyed your entire reputation.

There was also the disappointment that their faith in you obviously was so easily shaken and lost. 

Of the few people you trusted- and it took you a long time to trust anyone at all- you were betrayed.

You suffered from not only one Judas, Sherlock, you had to put up with an entire Yard of them.

And on top of it all you faced a nemesis far more cunning than Pontius Pilate ever could have been- the worst scum of a human being I have ever met.

  
  
There are moments where I wish you would have listened to me that night at the pool and ran.

I would have happily given my life knowing I would take that bastard with me and we'd enjoy tea in hell.

It would have saved your life.

And that has always been my only priority: Save the people I'm responsible for.

I do not know if it was the Captain in me or if it was something entirely different then, but the point stands, Sherlock.

I was responsible for you. In so many ways.

As as a companion, as a colleague, as a doctor and sometimes as a guide.

But most of all as a friend.

And I failed you.

I failed in every sense.

I still do not understand why this happened and I do not know how I could have helped you, but I would have, Sherlock.

I would have.

If you would only have told me.

If you would only have let me know.  
  



	4. What hurts the most

I know you trusted me.

You would not have showed me this other side of you, the human side, the vulnerable side of you if I had not gained your trust at some point.

I know you considered me a very good friend, you even told me so, remember?

From what I know about you I was the closest to a best friend you ever had. So whatever happened 3 days ago must have deeply terrified you, for you would not have sold such a cheap lie to me then, instead of making up something far more convincing.

If you would have been yourself and had time to plan, you would not have acted in such an obvious way.

You would have known that I would never believe those lies.

Whatever happened, Sherlock, I never lost my faith in you.

You can rest assured that there is one person at least, who will believe in you- forever.  
  
 **I am and will for the rest of my life remain**  
 **YOUR BEST FRIEND.**  
  
And it pains me that you didn't feel comfortable enough to tell me what was going on.  
  
  
  
I need not think about it to know that you were more to me, Sherlock. More than just a friend.

You saved me in so many ways that I saved you. And now that you are gone I feel like a part of me is missing.

Over the years we have become a unit, an entity that I thought nothing could destruct. And even if I was proven wrong in the end, I refuse to believe that you did this without considering every other possibility there might have been.

You would not have thrown this away so easily, you valued our friendship as much as I did.

I know that.

I just know it deep inside of me.

  
I would have stood at your side until the end, Sherlock.

I would have faced this with you.

I would have fought Moriarty and all the others.

I would have died for you.

Without a second thought.

There's no point in denying the huge place that you hold inside of my heart.

  
I owe you so much and I will never stop to mourn your loss.

I lost the best man I have ever known and I will never forgive myself that I could not help you.

  
The void you left is greater than anything I have ever known and considering the many people I have seen come and go (I can see you smile mischievously, you sod) I know what this torment that I am going through at the moment really means.  
  
I have struggled to understand the feelings I hold for you, the connection we had.

You were in every way my perfect opposite.

Whenever I was lost, you were there with a way out.

Whenever you were about to go too far, I was there to hold you back.

  
I know now, that what I have been searching for was something entirely different all this time:  
I was looking for someone to truly understand, accept and complete me.  
  
And that someone was you, Sherlock.  
  
You gave my life a purpose and a joy I will never find again.

I was meant to be by your side.

We were meant to be together.

And then Moriarty came and tore us apart.

  
  
I do not cry.

Some moments I wish I could.

But I fear that if I ever give in to it, I might not be able to stop.

The only person I would allow to see me like that, the only one who could really comfort me, is gone.  


I saw you fall.

I saw you lie broken on the ground.

I saw you staring up at me, as if you tried to tell me how surprised you were yourself about how it all ended.

I held your hand and tried to feel your pulse.

I was torn away from you in every sense.

There were hands that held me, pulled me away from you when my knees gave out underneath me.  
  
The scope if it all took but seconds to strike me and all I could do was watch.

Unable to move or to speak I watched them as they picked you up, put you on a stretcher and rolled you away.

  
What would have been my duty in a different place and time happened right before me and I was so helpless, Sherlock. So helpless.

On this day, in this moment, I wasn't a doctor.  
  
I was a man who watched the blood of his beloved getting washed away by the rain.  
  
I watched and thought and felt.  
  
And I realized.  
  
I realized why I believed in you from the first moment.

Why I trusted you and killed for you without a thought only hours after I met you.

Why I miss you so much now that you're gone.

Why it hurts so bad.

  
  
 **I love you, Sherlock.**

**I love you so much it scares me.**

 

But now I will never have the chance to tell you.

And that's what hurts the most.  



	5. Questions

_I love you, Sherlock._  
 _I love you so much it scares me._  
 _But now I will never have the chance to tell you._  
 _And that's what hurts the most._  
  
I wish I could see your smile one last time.

That glee in your eyes when you were truly happy about something.

The look you sometimes gave me across an entire room filled of yarders.

That secret understanding between us that required no words.

One look and I instantly knew what you were trying to tell me.

I will miss that.

I already miss the smell of your aftershave on the sofa cushions or the scent of your shampoo mixed with the steam of the shower vaporising through the entire flat like a comforting cloud of what characterised these rooms as my home.

It's fading.

I already sense that with every breath I take, with every molecule that I inhale of what remains of you, I lose you more and more.

You are slowly but gradually slipping through my fingers and the silly urge to reach out and try to grab something-anything of you is so strong sometimes that I bolt from my chair only to find myself standing in the middle of the sitting room without a clue as to what I'm actually trying to do. 

Can you imagine what it feels like for me to be so helpless? 

I think you can. 

It must be as if someone would tie you to a chair, teasing you with images and clues but leaving you unable to move, to speak or to breathe.

The frustration that comes with the knowledge that you will never have what you are trying to reach is numbing.

Like a defeated man I linger here brooding over the past and trying to figure out when the moment came that decided upon my future in such a devastating way. 

I cannot see it, Sherlock.

I remember saying to you that the press would eventually turn against you. 

Was it that moment? 

Was it when I chinned the Superintendend and we ran? 

Was it when we met 'Richard Brooke' in that journalists flat? 

Was it the moment we entered Bart's that you made up your mind? 

When did you know how it would end? 

When did you decide that it was better for you to do this on your own? 

Why, Sherlock, why did you send me away? 

I'm sure that was part of whatever you had planned in the first place.

It tears my heart into pieces to remember the last words we exchanged face to face. 

You said 'alone is what I have. Alone protects me'. 

Did you really mean it the way it feels to me? 

Had I become some sort of threat to you that you needed to get rid off? 

Did you regret that you had allowed yourself to get so involved with me? So closely attached? 

I don't want to believe that Sherlock. 

I want to believe that you said it to make me angry and thereby make it easier for me in the end.

That you knew what was coming and wanted to leave me in a state of disappointment and anger because those are emotions that are far easier to deal with.

You knew that very well.

And to convince myself that none of what you said was true in this last moments we shared, is the only way that I can stand to live with those words I spat into your face crossing the threshold of the lab.

'You machine.'

They must have hurt you as much as it hurts me to know that I can never take them back. That I can never apologize and tell you how much I regret saying them at all.  
  
I know you didn't actually mean those things you said to me on the phone.

I pray to God for them to be lies.

I refuse to see them as anything else.

I refuse to accept that our friendship and my love for you was based on something that never actually existed.  
  
And I hate myself for this small feeling of doubt that lingers in the back of my head. But I suppose it's only human. 

To think about it again and again and again has left me contemplating even the most painful possibilities for lack of other explanations. 

**I'm sorry.**

**I'm sorry, Sherlock.**

I feel so miserable. 

All I wish for is that you could come back and explain.

Explain to me how obvious everything is and mock me again because I don't see it. 

And then I could say 'brilliant' and 'fantastic' and probably a little 'fuck you' as well for putting me through this. 

I wish I could punch you in the face and then hold you and keep you, never letting go again. 

I wish I could kiss the top of your head and place my hand on your back or maybe just hold your hand a little.

Reassure myself that you are really here and that it's not an illusion my brain provides me with because I have finally lost my mind over this insanity.  
  


I wish you were here, Sherlock.  
  
I wish you were here by me.  
  



	6. Goodbyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One line is inspired by Jason Walkers 'Shouldn't be a good in goodbye'.  
> It's a beautiful (yet heartbreaking) song in a line of many wonderful songs. If you don't know him yet you should really check him out! 
> 
> Most of his songs can be seen as amazing Johnlock songs!

 

 

 

 

I had a visit from Anthea today.

Mycroft sent his little foot soldier to avoid facing me himself.

The bastard.

 

I'm sorry, Sherlock but right now I would happily join you in insulting your brother.

I hate him.

I just hate him so much for giving away all this information about you.

The ammunition to your (painfully literal) fall from grace.

He helped drag you into the spotlight and then fed those vultures with ways to take you apart.

Like a pig to the butcher he even handed them the correct knife with which to kill you.

I will never forgive your brother for that.

He is just as involved in this tragedy as Moriarty himself.

**He is just as responsible.**

He helped killing you and I wish he will burn in hell for taking you away from me.

I know that's not a good thing to feel or say but I can't help it.

At the moment I'm so furious I wouldn't guarantee for his safety if he walked in here.

Glad he sent Anthea then.

Clever bastard.

  
  
She told me about the funeral arrangements so far.

I didn't want to listen but I know that I will eventually have to face these demons one day and missing your funeral would be unacceptable.

It's the last part of our journey together and I want to say goodbye to you in the appropriate manner.

I was taught in the army many years ago never to leave a man behind- living or dead.

It's a matter of honor and respect and what I feel for you requires no big words or declarations- it's too late for that anyway, but it asks for some simple gestures.

That's all I'm left with.

 

I will face this day.

 

I will stand tall and make it the best fucking goodbye there ever was because I already missed the chance to say it to you on the phone and I will not miss it again this time.

 

_'Goodbye, John.'_

I can still hear you say. Your voice thick with tears.

 

**Goodbye, Sherlock.**

I hope you are in a place now where you can be truly happy.

Right now you're probably deducing shit about Jesus and how he faked his death and maybe you even teach him why his 'water to wine' trick wouldn't fool you and your brilliant mind.

God, to imagine that!

It makes me smile.

That's good.

 

 

  
**Goodbye, Sherlock.**

May your soul rest in peace and you find the silence to be not too tedious.

I would love to share your company but I'm afraid that's impossible.

Not now.

I have to stay behind like I always did and rebuild your reputation.

To preserve your memory in the way you're meant to be remembered is my only priority now.

And if I die trying- I honestly wouldn't mind.

What do I have to lose anyway?

 

_This flat?_

Mycroft's paying for it.

Mrs Hudson told me so.

She refuses to charge me and Mycroft is probably trying to make it up to me in that way.

It will take a long, a very long time before that happens.

 

 

 

_My posessions?_

What posessions, I ask?

My army revolver?

My trunk?

My uniform?

That's about all that I own. Everything else is just clutter with no value to me.

 

_My friends?_

Well, there's Mike, okay.

And I would miss Mrs Hudson dearly, that's for sure.

Harry?

Well, Harry would definately be hurt. But I guess in the end she would see and understand.

She knows me so well, despite the way it seems.

And then there's you.

You would be the most important thing to keep me here.

But you are gone.

So not anymore.

 

 

  
**Goodbye, Sherlock.**

Although I do not understand why there is a 'good' in goodbye at all.

Goodbyes are never happy. Never pleasant.

No one wants to part from something or someone that is dear to them for good.

I don't want to.

I never wanted it to end like this!

Admittedly it might be childish, but I somehow dreamt we could go on like this until we are too old to chase after people or run around London in the middle of the night lacking sleep, nutrition and most likely the bloody milk again.

I thought we would grow old toghether and I looked forward to see what kind of man you became when you aged.

I wanted to know about your previous life as much as I wanted to live in and be part of your future.

I would have been at your side when the cases had ceased, would have enjoyed your company reading, bickering and probably complaining about the faults of our bodies we more and more experienced.

The slow degradation of body function.

The pains and aches of the years.

The years we spent toghether.

The time of our lives.

 

**Goodbye, my friend.**

I will never forget you or the time that we had.

 

**Goodbye, Sherlock.**

My life, my world, my light in the darkness.

 

**Goodbye, my love.**

I will never stop to love you.

Just because you're dead doesn't mean I won't continue to love you with all my heart.

 

 

  
Until the day I die and beyond.

**You and me.**

**Forever.**


	7. Today

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the day of the funeral and John writes down how what he felt trying to live through this day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No sob-inducing details of the ceremony itself, but still quite hard to take I'm afraid.  
> I don't know why but angst is really easy for me to write, so there's a lot of it.
> 
> There's a song for every mood and John's entire POV was written by me listening to a constant loop of  
> Birdie's `People help the people'. 
> 
> So if you want to give it a try while reading this- it will be much more intense!

_Today was the day that I buried you._

_Today was the day that I enclosed my heart within your coffin to stay with you until we meet again in the lush confines of heaven._

_Today was the day I died a little more._

_Today was the day that I finally wept._   


I woke up knowing what was about to happen later this day and the dread that filled me upon opening my eyes was excrutiating enough already.

I rose in a haze, not bothering to get dressed and forced myself to take some breakfast. It could have been sand that I ate for all I cared.

I then occupied myself with showering, singing at the top of my lungs and screaming a little over the rushing sounds of the water.

I do not know if it was all just water that hit the bathtub.

Tears and blood seem to be likely going by the state of my mind at this moment.

I neatly arranged my hair.

I had it cut yesterday in advance for today.

I brushed my teeth and went out for a walk.

I strolled through Russell Square, the very place I met Mike Stamford again eighteen months ago.

I sat down and watched people pass me by.

Families with children running around giggling, laughing and spreading a happiness coming deep from within their hearts.

It made me sick.

How can the world just get on with business when you are missing?

How is it still turning as if nothing happened?

I felt so empty.

And I was scared of myself for feeling that way.

I used to be just as cheerful as those kids before my life took such odd turns.

Before I was sent to a country unknown to me, to fight in a war no one really understands its reason.

Before I was shot and almost died first of the blood loss, then of the infection.

Before I returned- broken and in agony about my own perspective.

The outlook on my life so gloomy and meaningless.

Without any purpose left.

**And then you.**

My saviour in the darkest of night.

Dragging me back into the light of life so blinding that at first it was overwhelming.

Then it became essential.

Then addictive.

Life-supporting.

Then Moriarty came.

And the light grew dimmer and dimmer.

Darker shades invading it like clouds of rain conquering a sunny sky.

And suddenly we found ourselves standing in the rain.

You on a rooftop and me on the ground below feeling so tiny and useless and looking up in horror to watch my whole life, my entire world shatter on the ground with you.

And with that the light vanished.

Extinguished like a candle in the wind just like the beat of your heart.

Your eyes are haunting me in my sleep sometimes.

The nightmares of the afghan desert made room for images of rainy London and tall hospital buildings.  
  
In the past a hospital was a place like home to me.

I felt so at ease with the nervous environment within.

It used to be a place where I didn't think of all the tragedys going on- I thought of all the miracles we achieved within those walls.

My grandmother would scowl me for saying this, but a hospital to me was like church to her.

A sacred place where few people do incredible, life changing things to the many only for the sake of making them whole again.

Something substantial.

Something you can see and feel and experience.

An improvement.

Now I only see the agony and despair of broken human beings facing the worst time of their life.

And I understand them.

I understand what they feel so well, Sherlock.

Nothing makes sense to me anymore.

Nothing is the way it used to be.

If the sun would never rise again, it would make no difference.

I lost all my light two weeks ago. The warmth that came with your company.

I am cold. Sherlock.

So cold.

  
I returned to Baker street to find Mrs Hudson weeping in her kitchen.

Already dressed in black she looked so tiny, so frail.

I had to support myself on the wall because me knees went weak at the sight of her. This cheerful woman looking so much like a broken little girl. She mourns you like her own son, Sherlock. If you could see what this has done to her.

Somehow I managed to get upstairs.

I didn't approach her in that moment because I knew it would only make it worse for both of us.

I could still hear her crying below when I ascended the stairs to my bedroom fifteen minutes later.

Upon closing the door silence befell me.

Can you imagine what this silence does to me, Sherlock?

There used to be noises everywhere when you were still here.

The clanking and rattling of your lab equipment when you were occupied in the kitchen.

Your violin play.

The telly.

The sound of typing on my laptop.

The gentle snore when you fell asleep on the sofa.

Yes, you did snore sometimes.

When you were seriously famished you collapsed onto the sofa and within minutes I could hear it.

The slow rhythm of you breathing in and out.

The most beautiful sound in the world.

Your mind finally at rest and your face so content.

I also remember the times we sat there together, watching telly, and slowly but gradually your head sank upon my shoulder and you leaned on me like an exhausted child after a day of excessive playing, the sound of your peaceful breathing so soothing that I followed you soon after, giving in to my slumbers.

To feel the weight of your ridiculously tall body against my shoulder is a feeling I will always cherish in my mind.

And miss terribly.

 

I remembered that as I sat down on my bed for a moment this morning.

That excrutiating silence, Sherlock.

It's the worst of it all.

What I would give to hear your voice once more...

I feel like I'm slowly fading.

Like a flower in the desert heat.

I am consciously aware of that process and yet there is nothing I can do.

Again, I felt so helpless in that moment that, for the first time since you died, Sherlock, I honestly couldn't help but cry.

Bitter tears flowing and that clenching feeling in my chest threatening to choke me.

Desperately indrawn breath, violent sobbing and my entire frame shaking in a fit of mourning.

My body fighting to accept that all of this is real, a part of my mind still desperately clinging on to the hope that it all just might be another trick of yours.

Some very stupid, very cruel scheme you had to play to win over Moriarty.

But I know that's wishful thinking.

I am only trying to deceive myself.

Divert my thoughts from accepting the horrendous truth.

You're not coming back to me.

It's impossible.

 

I buried you today.  
  
I enclosed my heart within your coffin today.  
  
I covered you in flowers today.  
  
I finally cried for you today.  
  
I died a little more inside today.  
  
I was brave enough to survive this day.  
  
I realized I have to live on- day after day.  
  
For you, Sherlock.  
  
For us.  



	8. Someone like you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The funeral theme is not over yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sorry.  
> I am so sorry.  
> This chapter is very personal to me and contains many thoughts and feelings I have experienced myself growing up and sometimes still.  
> Maybe that's why I feel so comfortable in this fandom and with these characters. I can relate.  
> I know that it hurts and I wish I could add more bits to make you laugh but I'm afraid that's impossible with John's POV. John might be the more cheery one at most points in the show but to me he was always the more serious character so far. Of course Sherlock has a dark side but he doesn't make that a secret.  
> And the people who appear to be happy are always the ones you should worry about more.

 

 

 

 

How does one describe what he feels at a funeral?  
  
It's an experience so nerve-wrecking it's hard to find suitable words for.  
  
I suppose it also depends on how emotionally invested you are with the person that has died.

If you never really cared about them at all it's probably quite easy to stand there and go through it.

If you did care about them then you are experiencing a sort of agony that is comparable only to dying itself. The grief and disbelieve so overpowering it's numbing.  
  


Which is why today reminded me of what I felt like lying in the afghan sand.  
  


Do you know what almost dying feels like?

Of course you do. 

You died.  
  
You stood on that roof and you knew that those were your final moments.

You knew you would never see or hear or feel again.

Complete darkness and a cold surrounding you like you can't ever possibly imagine before facing it.

  
You have no idea what it means to me that you chose to spend those final moments with me.

You could have called your brother instead.

Your mother.

But you chose me.

  
Why, I do not dare trying to understand.

You tried to convince me that all of what we had, all that we went through was never true.

Why would you want me to believe that, apart from making it easier for me?

Should I be offended that you believed this lame 'confession' would do? 

You forgot something, Sherlock. 

Tears.

Something very unlike yourself.

Those tears you shed are the living proof to me that you did not want it to end like this at all.

It hurt you to say those words, but not because you feared they would actually make me believe it was true what you said, but because you wanted to tell me something completely different.

I do not know the reason behind it, but making such a false confession must have been hard for you.

You knew that I would never believe those lies and you knew that things had gotten out of your control at this point.

But you tried to sell the lie anyway.

  
  
You could have jumped without saying goodbye.

Without leaving a note.

I would have learned about your death the moment I arrived back at Barts and it would have been too late already.  
  
Still I would have never believed you committed suicide because your 'secret' had come out.

I would have wondered and investigated and probably gotten myself into trouble because I would never accept it to be true.

And I would have blamed myself for the fact that you didn't call to say goodbye.

Like I didn't matter to you at all in the end.  
  


You didn't want me to believe that.

You didn't want to leave me like that.

You chose to call and even if the words were meaningless the gesture speaks for itself.

You didn't leave a note addressed to Mycroft for him to give to a newspaper to clear things up.

You called **me**.

 **I** was the one that mattered most to you in that moment.

And you wanted me to know that by explaining and apologizing to me exclusively. 

You gave **me** an explanation that was believable and fitted the facts, probably hoping that one day I would finally accept it to be true and that it would make it easier for me.

All that mattered to you was for **me** to know 'the truth' and know that you were sorry. 

You did that for me.

Just me. 

And then you even said goodbye.

  
What I still don't understand is why you asked me to tell the world you were a fake?

Why did you choose to die in disgrace?

Of course the press would have made their assumptions but I still don't get it, Sherlock.

I really don't.

Call me an idiot again, I'm begging you. 

But why did you ask me to lower myself to the level of those vultures?  
  


I am better than them, because I know, I just know, that I fell in love with the real you.

The true Sherlock Holmes.

The man who purged his own emotions to be able to function at his best for the sake of the many people living in this city.

And who got only their hate in return.

You put your own needs in second place, depriving yourself of food, sleep or even the most simple pleasures of life when you were on a case.

When lifes were at stake.

You told me once that you weren't a hero.

That caring about them won't help save them. 

Well, that statement itself showed how much you did in fact care about your fellow humans.

You tried not to care because that was the only way to work effectively.

Worries only cloud your mind.

And that would have been lethal in your case.  
  


Clearly you also benefittet from the distraction of the cases.

It diverted your mind from thinking too much about your own faults and desires.

Things that scared you.

Things you thought weren't appropriate and that you loathed about yourself.

Things you obviously didn't understand because no one ever told you that they were perfectly normal.

  
It hurts me to imagine what growing up must have been like for you.

Your intellect standing in your own way from the very beginning.

You felt at odds with people because they just didn't understand what you were trying to tell them.

They were unable to catch up with you because you were already so far ahead of them. 

The other children didn't understand you and what humans do not understand they fear. 

So they avoided your company, giving you the feeling that they didn't like you. Didn't want to have you around. 

I know that feeling of rejection, Sherlock. Ask me about my own childhood. 

Being misunderstood makes you turn into yourself, makes you believe there is no other person in this world that could possibly understand you better than yourself.

Isolating you in the middle of a crowd. And thereby making it only worse.

Walking amongst a mass of people unnoticed, uncared for.

All alone.

Some people break and crumble because of this.

Other people try their best to earn their approval by doing things that not everyone can do.

Outstanding things that require brains and bravery.

Like becoming a doctor.

Or fighting in a war.

Other people decide it's for the best to just don't care anymore.

To accept their fate and learn to love themselves the way they are.

But again, that only makes it worse.

People will interpret you being at ease with yourself as something different.

They will call it arrogance and start to actively dislike you instead of just ignoring you.

You start to earn their hate when everything you ever tried to get was their love and approval.

And that will finally turn you into a cold, unmovable person.

Someone they will start to call a freak.

Someone they will try to get rid of because they see you as a potential threat.

Someone outside the normal.

And that is always considered dangerous because it's acting unexpected and thereby is uncontrollable. 

People are very sensitive when they are losing control.

It shows them their own weaknesses and no one ever wants to know about those or their own limited abilities. 

They start to see you as their enemy, something superior with a dangerous potential that needs to be taken under control and out of reach of the community.  
  


That's what turned you into the person you are, Sherlock.

The person you were.

No.

The person they wanted to see.

  
They wanted to see you as that and you gave them what they wanted. Simply because you didn't care.

And quite likely because upon seeing the vicious potential of mankind you didn't dare to let them see more of you.

The human side of you.

The soft and tender, vulnerable child that was forver trapped inside your body.

The child that you imprisioned within yourself to protect it from the rest of the world.

It was there.

I saw it.

You let me see it.

And I still do not understand why you chose me of all people to show it to.

Did you understand me the way I instantly understood you?

Was there a secret understanding, a recognition that we both shared the same experiences in the past?

That the two of us weren't all that different when it comes to emotion?

Did you see what I was hiding?

Was it the desperate need of comfort from someone who, for the first time in your life, made the effort to look underneath the layers of iron you built up over the years and cared for the person guarded within?

Did I subconsciously sense that we had that in common?  
  


I do believe that, Sherlock.

I do believe that in a crowd of billions the two of us were destined to meet just so that we had each other.

A companion for life.

Someone to trust.

Someone to accept us the way we really were.

Someone to love and to be loved by.

Someone who didn't care about what's normal and where you could let yourself fall, knowing the other one would be there to catch you when needed or made sure you didn't start falling in the first place?

Someone to just simply be there.

Someone to give you comfort and warmth.

Someone to hold your hand in a reassuring gesture when you needed it.

Someone who would excuse your quirks and forgive you when you turned mad for a moment.

Someone to make you so utterly comfortable and at ease with yourself that you wouldn't care if it was your last moment or your last breath simply because you knew that that someone was there with you- sharing the moment.

Someone that could make you feel so calm that you started to hate breathing for destroying that moment of infinite peace.

Someone like you.

Someone like me.  
  


 

I didn't cry at the funeral itself.

I didn't, because at the same time as feeling like exploding of sheer agony about your loss, about knowing that I have lost you forever, I realized how lucky I was to find you in the first place.

And even if our time together was short, I wouldn't want to miss a second of it.

I wouldn't want to trade a single memory about you- no matter how painful it is to keep them- only because it would make it easier if I had never made them at all.

I embrace the pain that comes with remembering our time because it makes me feel alive.

Feeling pain is better than feeling nothing at all.

And as I am not unfamiliar with that ever since my childhood, there is no tragedy in going on the only way I used to know.  
  


I am keeping you alive within me.

And I will not forget you, Sherlock. 

Never in my life will I forget someone like you.


	9. This is us.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's reflection of the funeral continues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so, so sorry for taking so long with this chapter!  
> I had some medical issues to take care of (still am) and didn't really have the time or the right mood to write.  
> I hope this lives up to your expectations and isn't entirely screwed up. I feel like taking a longer break in between chapters causes you to 'lose your flow' or 'the spirit' of the work, so I hope I wasn't too late and managed to continue in the same way as before.
> 
> Sorry. I'm rambling.  
> I hope you enjoy it and if it sucks just tell me and I'll rewrite it when I'm in a better spirit!  
> Thanks!

 

 

 

What am I supposed to do now?  


I have lived and carried on to see the day of your funeral.

I have occupied myself and killed my time with only this day in mind.

Like a lifeline I have been holding on to, I moved forward inch by inch.

I crawled on hands and knees.

  
This day seemed so terrifyingly close and yet so far away.

I have been hoping for the closure it would bring.

The utopical peace of mind hoping it would get easier once it's definite that you're not coming back.

That I could finally accept it once I saw it with my own eyes and gradually find the strength to move on.

I would have preferred if I could have seen you one last time but Mycroft got really stroppy upon my request of that and denied me a last goodbye.

I don't know why he did it, but I suppose he didn't want me to weep over your coffin and cause a scene.

Bastard.  


But I was dreading this day for exactly that reason.

I was afraid the worst was yet to come and once the realisation sunk in I would finally fall apart completely.

But I felt only numbness during the entire ceremony.

A calm that was so shocking to feel because it must have seemed like I didn't care.

When we both know that exactly the opposite is the case.

I suppose I am simply too exhausted by now.

This rollercoaster of emotions has taken its toll on me.

 

_You're not coming back._

I don't want to leave you behind.

 

_You are definately gone._

The John Watson I knew went with you.

 

_You are lost._

I'm left over.

 

_Forever._

Until the day I die.

  
  
My own consciousness has built a shield aroud me, encasing me within my head and heart like an armour of calm to bring me peace within a battlefield of desperation.

I am trapped, but not with fear or pain alone, but with the memory of times that were, visions of times that could have been and dreams of what might be when I'll see you again.  
  
I know you never appreciated the poetry I sent to various women when you read my emails but those were lines written under the pretense of love-true love.

The following lines are my attempt at real poetry.

Forgive me if they are just as humble as you used to know them- I am a man of words but I am certainly not a man of graceful phrasing.

I hope it will at least amuse you.

And if it does I'll consider it a job well done.

Cause I loved it when I made you smile.  


The flowers on your grave  
They cheer in times of sadness  
  
The flowers on your grave  
They gain in times of scarceness  
  
The flowers on your grave  
They mock the one who's crying  
  
The flowers on your grave  
They ornament what's dying  
  
The flowers on your tomb  
They fade and dry and fall to dust  
  
The flowers on your tomb  
They're gone away because they must  
  
As every living thing in time  
Degrades and turns to ash  
  
My love for you will never die  
It never knew a gash  
  
It prospers, grows and spreads its wings  
Despite the storm of grief  
  
Because among all living things  
It nurtures only on believe.  
  
  
I read this to you out loud at the cemetery.

Only once I was alone of course.

I know you'd probably find this a ridiculous gesture but I wanted to do it anyway.

I just had to do it.

You know that feeling when there's something on your mind- a feeling, a thought and you just have to act on it, you can't possibly just forget about it?

It was one of those moments.

Long after everyone was gone and it began to get dark I lingered by your grave and watched the undertakers do their labour.

They have probably seen other people do that before but one of them actually asked me how long we had been married.

I smiled at the thought of that.

And then I told him the truth.

He was the first person ever not to give me such a pitiful look.

He patted me on the shoulder and said

'I will take very good care of him, be assured.'

That was the nicest little chat I had in weeks.  


I remained by your side until they were done and then lit a candle and put it next to your headstone.

I don't know, I felt like you needed some light in that dark, cold cemetery.

It's just something people do at graveyards even if it is just a silly gesture.

But it makes you feel better.

Some soothing deed that makes you believe that you actually did something kind for the person beneath your feet.

I can tell you that- although in most cases it's irrational, but- as the person to remain behind you somehow feel like you did something wrong and that you have to make it up to the one that has died.

The guilt of still being alive.

To be able to live your life and feel and think and enjoy it.

You feel as if it's a bad thing to go on when the person you lost can't do all that anymore.

No more.

I feel all that.

And more.

More guilt.

More dread.

More longing.

I sometimes wake up with my arm stretched out across the bed and I know that I dreamt of you.

Tried to reach out and grab hold of you.

Keep you in any way.

Desperate to feel your touch.

Or hear your voice.

Or see your face.

It's blurred.

I can't really make out your features anymore.

I only have those few cut-outs from the papers to keep my memory of your face alive, but they just don't do you justice.

Slowly but gradually I lose you and that scares me most.

I don't want to forget your face, Sherlock, but somehow I can't help it.

I try so hard to remember the shape of your eyes, the wrinkles around them, your lips, your ridiculous cupids bow.

The way your curly hair fell across your forehead.

As you tried to smooth it back only to have it fall back into place.

I miss that, Sherlock.

I miss every single movement of you.

Every single swift step as you danced around the flat playing your violin.

As you rushed off the sofa to check on an experiment in the kitchen.

As you did just the same, suddenly remembering that you had a craving for one of Mrs Hudsons cupcakes.

I won't ever be able to leave this flat.

I just cannot leave it behind and imagine that someone else will live here, create new memories within these walls and erase the ones of you.

I cannot let that happen.

At the moment Mrs Hudson feels the same way.

She doesn't dare to charge me and she refuses to rent it out to someone else.

Thankfully your brother supports her and thereby enables me to stay.

I guess he has the same strange mother-son relationship as you had with her.

And one day I might be able to tell him how grateful I am for that.

For helping to bring you up.

Or screw you up, I'm not yet sure about that.

But I can't deny that he really did care a great deal about you, Sherlock.

He loved you.

Greg told me that he was the one to literally drag you into rehab and that he visited you there as often as he could.

Which was apparently every single day either in his lunch break or after work.

He would probably kill me if he knew that I told you but he was a mess at the funeral.

I feel awful now but I would have never thought that he was capable of feeling...so much. At all.  
  
But I was thinking the same thing of you when we only briefly knew each other.

One day I will have to apologize for this.

I feel really sorry for him now.

After the funeral I tried to talk to him, wanted to say something comforting, but I don't even know what to tell myself to cheer me up.

How can I offer comfort to him?

How can I tell him it'll be all right if I can't believe it myself?

I saw this man, this usually so well composed man, so calm it sometimes made me sick- I saw him weep.

I saw him cry.

I heard him moan.

I saw this stoic man tremble and lean onto his umbrella even more heavily than usual.

I watched him grab hold of Mrs Hudson hand when she literally cried out as a violin quartet started playing 'the scientist' by Coldplay.

I don't know if you would have approved of this choice of music, but Mycroft said it was 'your song' and I think he is right.

It is our song.

The words describe in such painful detail every moment that we shared:  
  
 _'Come up to meet you, tell you I'm sorry_  
 _You don't know how lovely you are_  
 _I had to find you, tell you I need you_  
 _Tell you I set you apart_  
  
 _Tell me your secrets and ask me your questions_  
 _Oh, let's go back to the start_  
 _Running in circles, coming up tails_  
 _Heads on a science apart_  
  
 _Nobody said it was easy_  
 _It's such a shame for us to part_  
 _Nobody said it was easy_  
 _No one ever said it would be this hard_  
 _Oh, take me back to the start'_  
  
The first part is a perfect description of when we first met. Then after our first days together. Then as we both lay on the pavement...  
  
 _'I was just guessing at numbers and figures_  
 _Pulling the puzzles apart_  
 _Questions of science, science and progress_  
 _Do not speak as loud as my heart'_  
  
This is you, Sherlock. This is you.  
  
 _'But tell me you love me, come back and haunt me_  
 _Oh and I rush to the start_  
 _Running in circles, chasing our tails_  
 _Coming back as we are'_  
  
This is me.  
  
 _'Nobody said it was easy_  
 _Oh, it's such a shame for us to part_  
 _Nobody said it was easy_  
 _No one ever said it would be so hard_  
 _I'm going back to the start'_  
  
And this is us.  


This is us.


	10. Losing your faith

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is sick of it all.  
> And depressed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Believe me guys- I am really looking forward to the reunion and I already have some really good ideas about it, but it will take some more time to get there.  
> But I promise you, as I am being as impatient as Sherlock myself, WE WILL GET THERE SOON!  
> I need some goddamn fluff!
> 
> And thanks for the lovely comments, my dearest! I am now finally on some medication again and it can only get better from here! (Gosh, that sound like I'm a psychopath....well....sociopath.....well..... ;) )

It's another morning and I feel a little better today.

The 'herbal soothers' that Mrs Hudson sneaked into my tea when she thought I wouldn't notice finally gave me a good nights sleep.

You know that sometimes that's all I need.

I woke up and at least some of the exhaustion is gone now.

Like a weight lifted from my shoulders now that you're buried.

Definately gone.

Just like the oppression of the silence awaiting a funeral. 

Or being muted by the expectation of excrutiating pain in the face of a grave and the sound of church bells ringing a requiem for the deceased.

All that lies behind me now. 

I can breathe again. 

Breathe without feeling my core, my soul still shake in the wake of the aftermath of your death.

Something has shifted, thankfully. 

I can concentrate again. 

Concentrate on rebuilding your reputation. 

Proving this city that again she did what is a common routine in this world nowadays.

The rise and fall of its heroes.

The swift uplift to fame and fortune, being treated as if the gods have returned to earth and then the even faster fall from grace as one makes a mistake, a single, tiny mistake, proofing that we are all just human beings in the end but thereby killing the illusion that everyone is so deperate to belief in- that there is one hero, one person amongst us that can save us all and make all our dreams come true.

And the failure of this one saviour once again shows us with brutal force how very imperfect we all are and how unfair we are being treated by one another.

Our faith is shattered, our hope destroyed and we find ourselves in the dark ages again.

People have become so dull and lazy that they rarely fight for what they believe in themselves anymore.

Instead they wait for heroes to come to worship and support but when those prove to be only just as human the tables turn and they concentrate all their anger and desperation upon that person. 

And suddenly you find yourself being a fraud. 

You find yourself running away from the authorities and standing on the roof of buildings. 

You find yourself lost among the crowds and you face the bare nature of human kind- the need for us to find something or someone inferior, someone we can keep down and dominate because it makes us feel better and diverts our attention from our own faults and mistakes. 

It makes us feel better to know that there is someone that feels even worse than ourselves.

And we cherish our own cruelty that way.  
  


I am so sick of it.

I fought in a war that no one really knows when or why it started and I risked my life and saw men die hoping that we could make a difference.

Change some tiny bit in this big wide crazy world.

Turns out we were all wrong.

We failed. 

Once more.  
  


It makes me wonder why we even bother anymore.

Why we even try in the first place.

But I guess I shouldn't think about such elementary things right now.

It wouldn't do me any good.

I am still depressed enough.

I have done my duty for humanity.

I have had my share of it.

It's time I do something for myself.

And that is to save you.

In the only possible way that is left for me.

I will find proof, Sherlock.

And I will scream it at the top of my lungs for everyone to hear.  
  


_You were a genius._

_You were a hero._

_You were loved by someone._

_You are missed and mourned by someone._

 

And the world should know that it's her fault that a man is sitting in his sitting room, shaking and sobbing as he is typing up this journal, enraged by the injustice of it all, torn apart by longing and regret and repeating the same thought in his head again and again:  
  


_'Come back. Come back to me. Please, come back.'_   
  


And choking on the fact of knowing that it's impossible.  
  
I am pleading to every deity.

But it's no use.  
  
I lost my faith.

I am waiting for a wonder and I swear to God if he would give you back to me I would visit every single church in this city as a proof of my gratitude.  
  


Please.

**Please.**

_Please._   
  



	11. A new start

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mrs Hudson pays John a surprise visit which leads to some unexpected revelations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References for Mrs Hudson's first name:   
> Vincent Starrett (1934). The Singular Adventures of Martha Hudson.  
> Catherine Cook. "Mrs. Hudson: A Legend In Her Own Lodging House". The Baker Street Journal (55): 13–14. Retrieved 2012-02-04.
> 
> The other names were made up by me and I will refer to them later upon Sherlock's return.

 

 

 

 

Mrs Hudson's scones fresh from the oven.

You remember those, don't you?

The smell of them slowly creeping up the stairs into our sitting room and kitchen.

Instant comfort with every breath you take.

She's baking, Sherlock.

I can hear the clutter of the bowls and spoons, the baking tray. 

I can hear her sing.

She sounds happy.

I am happy.

You know why?

Because I told her.

  
She came up to look after me about an hour ago.

Probably heard me shouting.

I attempted to make scones myself.

I thought it would distract me and I know how much you loved them.

How you danced around the flat towards the kitchen wherever you were.

Tip-toeing to the table and then with a dramatic swing of your dressing gown planting yourself on a chair and inhaling deeply.

Like they contained nicotin.

I always felt strangely proud whenever you did that because of food that I had prepared.

You so often deprived yourself of substantial nutrition and when you did in fact eat you couldn't get the stuff in your hands fast enough.

So it was takeaway after takeaway.

But sometimes, on this rare occasions, when we had time and no case was in sight and you were driving me up the wall with all your complaints of being bored and idle- when I busied myself with cooking or baking, trying to kill time- suddenly you were there, completely at ease with the world and not bothered at all that you had just solved a case and Lestrade hadn't yet called with another one.

You focused entirely on me and what I did.

Like it was some sort of marvel I did by putting together some ingredients and popping them into the oven.

I suppose it was the chemistry behind the baking that fascinated you.

I remember how you once gave me a lecture on the difference between baking powder and baking soda and their chemical properties.

You somehow managed to get me so engulfed in the topic that we ended up with scones so hard you could hit holes into the walls throwing them.

Which on one occasion you actually did.

I'm looking at the dent in the plastering right now.

I tried to do better today.

But I ended up daydreaming about that afternoon and again I ruined them.

So I shouted at the oven in frustration.

And I threw one.

There's two dents now. 

Mrs Hudson was not amused, you can imagine.

But she stopped lecturing me as soon as I slumped down into the armchair, my chest heaving in frustration.

I guess I reached a sort of peak now.

All the tension from before the funeral built up and now that I can breathe a little more freely since you're buried, it's about to tear me apart for good.  
  


You should have seen the look in her eyes as she knelt before me.

Jesus fuck, I made her kneel down before me.

She's 76 for Christ's sake!

And she has a hip.

I shouldn't have let her do that.

But it helped, Sherlock.

It actually helped as she took hold of my hands and asked me what was wrong.

I stammered.

Couldn't really get the words out.

Didn't trust my voice.

Looked for excuses.

Something ordinary to explain to her why I was having a minor mental breakdown because of some bloody burnt scones.

But she knows better than that.

I didn't even need to say anything.

She knew.

She's Mrs Hudson.

Our landlady.

And surrogate mother to a self-proclaimed dead sociopath and a broken army doctor with a pyschosomatic limp, a blog and some serious heartache.

She knew.

 

' _John, this isn't about the scones, I can tell. You have been so wound up those last few days. Even worse than right after Sherlock..._ '

 

She didn't finish her sentence.

Couldn't.

Supressed a sob.

Looked at me again.

  
_'John, I can see. It's all right. Don't be ashamed. It's ok that you are sad. That you feel like crying.'_

 

She cupped my face.

Jesus, Sherlock.

You have no idea how good that felt.

I haven't been touched by another person in an affectionate way for ages.

All I got lately was handshakes and hugs always accompanied by condolences.

 

_'I feel the same way. Gosh, I have cried so much, John. You can't imagine. He was...he was my tenant for only two years, but I have known him so much longer. Did he ever tell you why I offered him this flat?'_

She asked.

_'He said he ensured the execution of your husband in Florida. Sorry.'_

 

_'No need to feel sorry, dear. He was an awful husband. Used to shout at me for nothing and sometimes raise his hand against me. He so often had a temper. You know the reason why I am so strict with Sherlock is that he sometimes reminds me of him.'_

She made a pause.

_'Reminded me. I couldn't bear to imagine him ending up being such a monstrous man. I know he was better. He was such a lovely boy.'_

  
_'Not quite a boy anymore. Though his behaviour sometimes...'_

  
_'Oh, no, John. He really was a lovely boy. So well mannered. I remember his tenth birthday. His mother was still not around much and I knew he had wished for a birthday celebration. Mycroft told me. So I took the boys to the zoo. And I offered to buy him popcorn and candy cotton and that fancy ice cream cones that they sell there sometimes. But you know what he did? He said no. He said, if he ate too much of it, he will get sick and 'Mummy won't like it'. Can you imagine? Such a lovely boy. So grown-up and yet so young. He always was ahead of his own time. That was his gift and curse at the same time.'_

  
_'You knew him when he was a kid?'_

  
_'Oh yes. His mother and I went to school together. When she had Mycroft I was just recovering from my second miscarriage.'_

 

I couldn't believe what she told me.

  
_'My god, Mrs Hudson, I am so sorry. I didn't know...'_

 

  
_'Oh that was ages ago, dear. Blame my husband for it. He never wanted to have kids. But when Violet lost her husband she didn't cope very well and was away most of the time, so I got to take care of the boys. She asked me to do it, I remember it. And ever since then I considered them my boys, too. I know it's foolish, I have no relation to them, but I think I had my share in helping them become the men they are today...were.'_

 

  
_'And you did a fantastic job, Mrs Hudson.'_

Now it was my turn to cup her cheek.

A tear had escaped during her little monologue.

 

  
_'I am their godmother. Sort of. Never was officially, but they used to call me 'auntie' when they were small.'_

 

  
_'Auntie Hudson?'_

I asked.

 

_'Oh no. Don't be silly. Of course they called me Auntie Martha.'_

 

  
_'Martha...'_

 

  
_'Yes! Didn't you know my first name?'_

 

  
_'Actually no.'_

 

  
_'Well, then. Call me Martha. So you'll remember it.'_

She gave me one of her most beautiful smiles.

Then she got serious again.

  
_'I know why you are coping so badly, John. You may think that I haven't had much reason to mourn my husband when he was gone but still I did. He was my husband! And I did once marry him because I loved him! And I remember how Violet coped with the death of Nigel, that was Mr Holmes, you know. She was so miserable. You aren't just mourning your friend, John. I don't want to intrude or get too personal but you did love him, didn't you?'_

 

  
_'Do. I do love him!'_

The words were out faster than I could have thought them.

  
She looked at me stunned.

And a little bit smug.

And then compassionate.

 

  
_'Oh dear. He does give you a hard time, still. But I can see why he changed so much in those last eighteen months. He really was over the moon with you.'_

 

  
_'No, we weren't...I mean...we didn't...never told him.'_

 

  
_'You weren't partners? Oh, and I always thougt...'_

 

  
_'No. Only just realized. Never had the chance...'_

I broke off sobbing.

I couldn't hold it back.

Sherlock, it was the first time I admitted loudly that I failed.

Failed to tell you the most important words I ever spoke.

Or meant to speak.

She hugged me close.

And I cried.

For the second time in two days, but for the first time in front of someone else I gave way to my emotions and cried like a little boy.

For a couple of minutes we sat there and she comforted me.

Then I regained my composure and she suggested to have tea.

That was fifteen minutes ago and she is still busy preparing the scones.

I didn't mean to tell anyone, yet.

But I am still glad that now I am not alone with my secret.

Mrs Hudson is the person I trust the most right after you and to know that she is in with me on the entire thing acutally makes me happy.

I feel reliefed to have had this conversation with her.

It's not that I needed anyone's approval of my feelings towards you but to know that Mrs Hudson supports me...it's precious.

It makes me love her even more.

And she brought back some of my cheeriness.

It's contagious I suppose, because I can very clearly hear someone sing 'Penny Lane' downstairs.

It's as if a giant knot has finally been broken this afternoon and now I am not alone anymore.

I feel so alone without you.

But now we can be alone together.

Me and her.

That's a start, I guess.  
  



	12. Who I am

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is talked into going on a date with a woman called Mary.  
> Things don't go as expected...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. I usually write on my train to work where I have an hour to spend, but right now the tracks are under contruction and I have to take one train and two buses and walk and....you don't wanna know. But concentration and mood suffers when you are constantly chasing public transportation vehicles.  
> How tedious.

 

 

 

 

I officially declare this to be the weirdest day of my life so far.  
  
And that means something, living with you for the last eighteen months.  
  
Considering I thought my love life couldn't get any weirder or more ridiculous after I met you, I have been taught a different lesson as of late.  
  
I have been introduced to a lovely woman after once again running into Mike Stamford some weeks ago.

Apparently a friend of his wife, she stayed with them for the month looking for accommodation in London.

Mike probably thought take two on 'Introducing John Watson to life-changing people' would turn out to be as successful as the first one.  
  
I can't blame him.

He has always been a fatherly type, caring for his mates with a passion that sometimes bordered the unhealthy- thinking of his own needs last.

I think I know another bloke of that sort...

  
  
Well, we bumped into each other at Angelo's.

I was just about to leave with takeaway for me and Mrs Hudson when they entered for a late dinner.  
  
Naturally I had to say hello and shake hands with them even though I still wasn't really in the mood for much socialising.

As I shook her hand I could already see a self satisfied grin spread across Mike's face and I knew this was going to be tricky.

I kept the following conversation very brief, explaining I had a landlady with a hip waiting for me who would be rather cross if I missed the start of 'Broadchurch' and arrive with food already gone cold.  
  
I stepped out onto the street with a relieved sigh, thinking I had once more passed the oppression of having to appear in a cheery mood and started my quick stroll back to Baker street.

Once there Mrs Hudson and me immediately dug in, wolfed down probably a pound of delicious pasta each-counting without the sauce (I chose your favourite, salmon and capers in tomato)- and enjoyed the newest portrayal of David Tennant.  
  


So far so good.

I thought.

 

  
Two days later I got a text message from an unknown number.

As I don't give my number out to many people and usually even fewer of them bother with texting me (as ordinary people of similar age like me find it quite laborious to do so- don't give me that look) you can imagine the leap my heart took when it chimed with the same text alert tone I used to hear before reading cryptic messages such as:  
  


 

**BILLY GONE AGAIN**   
  


or

**NO MORE CLEANING MY EQUIPMENT WITH 'FAIRY'!!! *sulk***

(Which makes me giggle remembering how all your following experiments turned purple because of change in pH due to residue of alkali soap on the glass AND you adding the word 'sulk' to indicate how you felt about it)  
  
or  
  


**JOHN, I NEED BACON!**

(Another fond memory of you actually demanding food for ingestion rather than a 'test')  
  


 

So when I retrieved my phone with slightly trembling hands to then read the text of a flirtatious young woman I couldn't help but cry out in frustration and disappointment.

Another rush of cold set deep inside of my heart but it faded more quickly as of late, I suppose because I simply get used to it and my conscious leaves it to my subconscious to deal with later at night in my dreams.  
  
Mrs Hudson bolted (literally, you wouldn't believe it with her hip) up the stairs to check on me and after I explained to her what the situation was she simply said:

_'Well, poor girl. But she better bugger off of my dear boy.'_

(I blame the afterglow of the rather large quantity of Pimm's we had the night before for that unusual outburst)  
  


 

After my initial fit of laughter about that had faded I contemplated to meet up with her simply for the sake of company and seeing a new face.

Then I reminded myself that I wasn't much fun to hang out with in the current situation, nor in the spirit of acting 'normal', nor in the mood of gently letting a nice girl down after she made an effort.

So better stop it before it gets complicated.

Martha agreed.  
  


 

I sent a polite text back, stating that I was unavailable but flattered by the offer and hoped she would get the hint and leave me alone.

  
She did.

At first.  
  


 

But Mike didn't.

At all.  
  


 

He called me that very evening asking me why exactly I let her down, encouraging me to go on a date with no liabilities, reasoning with the doctor in me that it was unhealthy to lock myself in the house and nursing my depression.  
  
That's where he got me, I'm ashamed to admit.

But he had a point.

What I was doing was not really unhealthy, but it really didn't hurt if I set my foot outside for more than just fetching food or going to work (occasionally).  
  
So I agreed.

And she called this time.  
  


 

As I completely forgot her name due to our rather rushed introduction on the doorstep of Angelo's we started with that and ended with Pavlova for her and the strongest espresso our culinary friend from Italy could brew.

Throughout the meal he was very lovely as a waiter but whenever she went to the ladies he would come over and sit down for a second asking what was going on.

I explained to him and he continued being friendly to her but started dropping hints as to what a busy man I was, asked about my current affairs with the Yard and whether that 'Signora from the morgue' had received his special Panna Cotta for her birthday.

I suppose he tried to make me appear less appealing and as being busy and with a dangerous and gross job.

Unfortunately she turned out to be rather unimpressed by that and very much keen on hearing the most gruesome stories I could tell.  
  
So I hopped onto the train Angelo had so kindly provided me with, hoping her enthusiasm would cease once I told her about gas experiments at secret military facilities causing violent outbursts, body parts in my fridge and never knowing what the bolognese actually contained and the three stomach pumpings I received after being drugged with 'mildly lethal' poisons (thanks for that again...)  
  


I hoped this would do.

I was wrong.

 

This impossible woman inquired about every little detail making it rather difficult to keep up the lie exaggerating all those (true) occurences for the sake of kindly getting rid of her.  
  
As Mary (for that was her name) was the daughter of a Colonel who had served in more than one war on more than one side (I didn't dare to ask further for I was disgusted by the possibility her father could be a mercenary in the end) she seemed to be used to tales of violence and danger and possibly had a mild kink on that.

As women are often drawn towards men that remind them of their fathers and also to those in uniform I was probably the perfect prey in her eyes.

 

Don't get me wrong, she was nice.

A very lovely person indeed- she was witty, intelligent and had a strong will, not as overly feminine and delicate as other women I have dated- but she fought a losing battle with me.  
 

I didn't have the heart to tell her that I wasn't at all interested in her because in a different time and place- years ago- she would have been exactly my type.

That I simply was not into women anymore would have been a lie for I don't think I could find another person at all, no matter what gender, who would be so utterly perfect for me like you.

 

And even if you roll your eyes upon my 'sentiments', Sherlock, I have decided that I do not want to look at all.

I know you never considered 'feelings' as something to indulge in too much (apart from gut instinct) but rather as a tedious business you couldn't be arsed to explore for yourself, but let me tell you this:  
  


 

I believe in a love that will never die.

 

And I believe that a human being can devote its heart to another person and remain faithful even if that person is gone until the day he or she passes themself.

 

I believe that I found that kind of love in you.

 

And that I will never feel so much for any other human being again.

 

I will never feel so at home and complete and safe and warm inside again.

 

I will never smile or laugh the same way I did for you.

 

I will never dare to let anyone get so close to my heart again.

 

That's impossible anyway.

 

You know why?

 

Because the moment I buried you, Sherlock, I put it into your folded hands, cradled it to your chest and left it with you as a token of my eternal gratefulness, respect, admiration and love.

 

To keep you safe and warm whenever you need it, wherever you are.

 

To remind you that there is one person in this world who loves you and will die himself doing so.

 

Who cannot give up on you and whose faith in you was never stronger than in the second you jumped.  
  


 

Call me a hopeless romantic, Sherlock.

 

Call me an idiot for feeling this way.

 

Call me yours only.

Forever.  
  


 

Because I am.

**I love you.**


	13. The non-disastrous tea disaster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary pays a surprise visit, Mrs Hudson is baking, John has a minor mental breakdown upon the two of them meeting and in the end it's all fine...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if there's too much direct speech.  
> A more humorous chapter I think, because we all needed that.  
> I think John is slowly getting better at remembering things with a smile instead of a violent sob.

 

 

 

 

Mary Morstan is an impossible woman.  
  
So is Mrs Hudson.  
  
As I had to learn the hard way today.  
  


  
Sherlock, I honestly do not understand what it is with me and women.

They are either interested in me and I am the one who fucks it up, or it's the other way around.  
  
But with these two...

It's like nothing I have ever experienced before.  
  


 

Don't worry.

I do not in the least fancy her.

Mary that is.

Martha I am fond of, you know that, but in that 'She could be my mother' kind of way.  
  
But Mary Morstan somehow startled me into the first fit of whole hearted laughter since...well, since.  
  


 

She showed up on our doorstep today to talk to me about our  'date' of last night.

I was anxious as to whether she had developed a serious affection for me despite my rather horrible behaviour.

For a brief moment I was afraid I would have to rely on some of your 'flirting methodology' as you once named it.

But my fears were unfounded.

Thank God.  
  


 

As soon as I had invited her in and offered tea she started to look very nervous and even a little...ashamed.

I didn't really know why and frankly I didn't really care for my night had been a literal nightmare once again and I barely got any rest due to that.

I was edgy, grumpy and tried my best to remain polite despite feeling completely **NOT** in the mood for any company at all.

Not even Martha.

But Martha, the saint that she is, sensed that right upon laying eyes on me when I got the newspapers from the letterbox and left me be.  
  
So when tea was ready and I had nothing left to occupy myself with otherwise than concentrate on my guest, I decided to go for the truth.

I told her that I had a terrible night and wasn't really in the mood for a second date.

At all.  
  


What really startled me then was what she said sitting in our kitchen and playing nervously with the handle of her mug.  
  


 

_'I hope you don't hold your hopes up too high with me, John.'_

A blank look from my side of the table.

 

  
 _'I really enjoyed your company yesterday, but I don't think I want a second date with you, sorry.'_

She looked at me with an expression that not even Ebenezer Scrooge would have been able to stand.  
  


 

_'I...I don't think I understand. You came to **my** house to ditch **me**? That's certainly something I didn't see coming.'_  
  


 

_'No, no, John. Oh God. I'm so sorry. I just thought better now than later. It's...Mike really talked me into this whole thing and you honestly are a wonderful man from what I've got to know of you, but I'm really not looking for any kind of...'_  
  


 

I held up a hand to silence her.

I couldn't bear the end of that sentence.

I have heard it once before.

And the memory of that flashing my mind seriously endangered not only my mental health but also my reputation.

A soldier doesn't cry in front of a civilian.

Least not a woman (expect for his mother maybe...or his landlady)

Stupid army training.

But engrained in my bones.

 

  
  
 _'Mary...'_ I began.

_'You don't have to explain...I am not really in the spirit of dating myself, so...'_  
  


 

She took my hand.

I surpressed a shudder.  
  


 

_'John, I...'_  
  


 

_'Woohoo! John, dear? You any better? I made shortbread and I thought it'll cheer you...oh.'_  
  


 

Martha.

My beautiful, dear, lovely Martha.  
  


 

_'Mrs Hudson, thank you. I'm sure my guest will enjoy a treat of your baking, too, if you don't mind.'_  
  


 

_'Oh, I surely don't mind, John. What I do mind is you still missing out on calling me Martha.'_  
  


Damn. 

 

  
 _'Sorry. Sorry, Martha. I pledge to do better.'_

 

I smiled at her.

Genuinely.  
  


 

_'I know you will, my boy. Now might I say hello to your guest? I'm Martha. His...landlady and...'_

She came to stand behind my chair.

_'Friend. And my patron saint right now more than ever.'_  
  


 

 _'Oh, you...'_ She playfully smacked my shoulder.

 _'Don't listen to the silly boy. He's being too kind. Always the one with the compliments. Just because I look after my boys every once in a while. You never know what they are up to, you know, with Sherlock shooting holes in my wall and...'_

 

She stopped.

Her eyes as big as saucers upon the realisation of what she had just said.

With a sighed _'Oh no...'_ she watched me almost crush my cup between my hands from the sheer power of restraining myself not to cry out.

Then she jumped back as I bolted from my chair and ran up the stairs and into my bedroom, slamming the door behind me in a fit of desperation.  
  


 

What happened then I learned some twenty minutes later when I reappeared from my room.

My eyes still a little puffed (despite the ice cold water I literally soaked my face in) and with an apology upon my lips.  
  
I found the kitchen deserted.

The cups were emptied, cleaned and left to dry by the sink and a half empty plate of shortbread was left upon the table.

Stunned and a little suspicious I took the stairs down to Mrs Hudsons flat and knocked hesitantly.

Somehow I feared I'd find them both merrily chatting and spoiling the mood with my return.

Also I was scared of having to apologize for behaving like a petulant child before.

Seriously embarassed I took a deep breath, determined to face it like a man and get it over with, then maybe return to the flat and possibly die a little of shame.

In a manly, soldier-like manner.  
  


 

Martha opened the door with a reassuring smile on her face.

My mind went blank.

Then she threw her arms around me and squeezed the living breath out of my lungs.  
  


 

_'Oh John. I am so sorry.'_  
  


 

I didn't respond.

Partly because I didn't understand why _she_ was apologizing when _I_ had been the prick to leave her alone with my guest, and partly because I simply couldn't expand my chest enough to utter a single word.

That woman might be tiny and look fragile but I wouldn't want to see her in a rage.

But I suppose with a husband like that...  
  


 

When she finally let go she must have seen the confused look I gave her for she continued:  
  


 

_'I didn't mean to...you know...give you...sorry, dear.'_  
  


 

 _'Never mind, Martha.'_ A smile spread across her face.

_'I think it will just take some more time. It's his name you know. It triggers all those memories and I can't...'_

My voice broke once again.  
  


 

_'It's okay, love. I know. I don't mind. You need space.'_  
  


 

_'Yeah. Space to breathe. Sometimes my heart clenches so much I actually feel like choking. I even contemplated an asthma spray.'_  
  


Of course that's nonsense, but it made us both laugh and I didn't want her to feel any more guilty for my miserable moods.  
  


 

_'Where's Mary? I should really apologize...'_  
  


 

_'Oh, she left.'_  
  


 

I sighed.

_'I feared that much. But then again. I wanted to get rid of her anyway, so…I just wanted to do it a little more…gentle. And perhaps with a little more dignity.'_  
  


 

_'You don't have to feel bad about it, John.'_

 

And there was this sheepish grin again that she sometimes sported. 

You remember when she hid the Adler-phone in her blouse and was so proud she had deceived those stupid americans?

That grin.  
  
The grin that now confused me into a mild panic attack remembering what she had initially said about Mary having to 'bugger off'.

The look of horror on my face made her giggle.  
  


 

_'Don't worry. It's all sorted. Come in boy, kettle's just boiled.'_  
  


 

So I followed her into the kitchen and was treated with Earl Grey and some shortbread to 'soothe my nerves'.  
  
Then she started to explain to me.

And I let her talk.  
  


 

_'Upon your...departure I was in the lucky position to talk to that woman in private. I thought if I could make her see, of course without giving away too much, that you are not interested, she would leave you in peace and not be offended by some silly excuse you might have made up. And don't give me that look, young man, I know how boys can be with these things. Although I would never suspect you to be anything else than a perfect gentleman, John.'_  
  


She patted my hand as I just reached for another cookie.  
  


_'So I thought of a way to start the conversation but she was very eager to resolve the problem herself.'_  
  


 

I stared at her questioningly.  
  


 

_'She's gay, John.'_

 

She beamed as if talking about a fictional daughter who just announced a fictional grandchild.  
  


 

_'She fancies women. That's why she was here today. She was trying to do the exact same thing as you. She told me how her father is a very conservative man and that she is looking for a flat in London because she wants to get away from her parents, fearing they wouldn't approve of her lifestyle.'_  
  


 

I must have dropped my jaw.

Like in a cartoon.  
  


 

_'Mike and Susan don't know about that either. She's told no one so far. So when Mike suggested this date she agreed simply for the sake of keeping up her cover, so to speak. And that's what she was trying to explain to you, dear. She said it was unfair towards you and she regretted it and she didn't want you to get your hopes up.'_

 

_'I honestly don't know what to say to that.'_   
  


 

_'Well, good I was there in your place then. Imagine you giving her that look you have right now.'_

 

Once again she playfully smacked my arm.

She's a cheeky teaser sometimes, our Mrs Hudson.  
  


 

_'Under the circumstances John, I thought it would be only fair to tell her at least some of the truth about you. Believe me, she looked so miserable and lost, I'm afraid she has no one to talk to about her situation. She almost certainly has not many friends who know the truth so I though it might help her if she knows that she is not alone here. I hope you don't mind, John. I only wanted to comfort the poor girl...'_

  
  
_'It's all right, Mrs Hudson. I don't mind at all. Given that everyone else almost immediately thought I was gay ever since I moved in with Sherlock, I'm surprised she didn't suspect as much. Especially now that they all turned out to be absolutely right...'_   
  


 

 _'Oh dear...'_ She took my hand once more.

_'I am so relieved that you have finally come to terms with it all. You used to be so persistend upon 'not being gay'. I thought it was unhealthy when clearly we all knew...'_

She stopped herself.  
  


 

_'Yeah, I know. Thanks. Everyone else knew and I was the last one to find out. And my timing for it being utterly brilliant, isn't it?'_

I stifled a hollow laugh.  
  


 

_'John...Oh my dear boy. I wish…I wish I could...'_  
  


 

_'No. Don't. Nobody can. Nobody. Just me.'_

I gave her hand a reassuring squeeze.

Brought the topic back to lighter concerns.

_'So you told her that I am gay, too.'_  
  


 

_'Yes. I explained to her that you have yourself just discovered that and also that you are not acutally single. At all.'_  
  


 

_'Well...I guess I am, I'm afraid.'_  
  


 

_'You're not, John. We both know that. You wouldn't...'_

She didn't finish her sentence.

Didn't need to.  
  


 

I took a deep breath.

Steeling myself for speaking out what I had felt all along.

 

_'You're right. I wouldn't. There's just him. There will always be only him.'_  
  


 

She smiled another one of those contagious smiles.  
  


 

_'That's our Sherlock. A unique detective for a unique doctor.'_  
  


 

I laughed from the bottom of my heart at the image of you hearing her say that.

You would probably roll your eyes in a very dramatic fashion upon that sentiment.  
  


_'Quite right.'_

I agreed. _  
_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I thought if John and Sherlock actually turn out to be gay in our fandom why not Mary, too?


	14. The world of Doctor John Hamish Watson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John visits Ella- his psychiatrist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short one guys, I'm sorry, but I'm battling a little with my new medication and dear LORD having moodswings like John combined with arousal at the oddest occasions is quite a challenging combination...

 

 

 

I went to see Ella today.

 

I know that you never approved of her but it's been four months now and the incident with Mary last friday showed me that it can only help if get some counselling again.

It's not a good sign that I still react so strongly upon hearing just your name.

 

I really was reluctant to go there- as you can imagine I don't like to pour my heart out to some stranger, but then again she's no stranger at all and this time at least, I knew what to expect.

She was very patient as usual but as the session progressed she more and more encouraged me to speak out what was bothering me.

I can tell you I felt my heart throb in my throat.

I didn't want to tell her.

I was afraid of the tears.

Of again feeling like I lose control completely and my body won't do what I expect it to do anymore.

Of feeling utterly helpless and vulnerable despite knowing that there wont be any real harm.

Of feeling raw and torn open, like there is a gaping hole in my chest where my heart used to be but where now is only a black, acidic mass of agony and terror.

Of knowing that no matter what I do or how often I will talk about it, it will never mend.

It will always stay this way.

Nothing will be changed by it.

It will only get easier to hide my true state of emotion and I will start to feel more and more numb because I simply can't find the strength to fight against it anymore.

 

All this Ella could read in my eyes the moment I crossed the threshold.

And she simply gave me a reassuring smile.

And strangely that was enough to make me feel better.

She gave me time to form the words.

To find a way to verbally express what my entire body was screaming and shouting and desperately trying to cry out.

I told her that my best friend had died.

I didn't tell her more.

She said that there is stuff I wanted to say if only I had the chance.

And that I should say it now.

And in this moment I hated her as well as loved her, Sherlock.

For she understood every bit of my misery and yet didn't poke at the wound as one would expect of a psychiatrist, but let me know that she is there for me, that she won't leave me alone but give me all the space I need.

And that, Sherlock, is exactly what Martha offered before and what Mary understood as well as Ella did and the realisation that there were three women so utterly worried but at the same time so beautifully patient with me was so intense that I almost choked on my own breath as it got stuck in my throat.

 

I left today without speaking out what I need the world to know.

But I am determined to do it next time.

And the time after.

And gradually, no matter how slowly, I will find the strength and courage to face it.

I am a soldier.

I used to know how to handle a crisis.

 

You will not come back to me.

 

I will never have what I desire the most.

 

I won't ever get to see your face or your frown or your smile again.

 

But I am the luckiest man in the world to call you my best friend.

 

And to have been considered a friend by you.

 

To know that I was more to you than just anyone else.

 

And that is enough, Sherlock.

 

It's all I need.

 

For me, that is the world.


	15. A punch in the face and a shocking epiphany

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John remembers a detail of the fall. And he finds his sass again.  
> Thank god.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all your lovely comments! You are wonderful!
> 
> To those concerned about my remark on medication:  
> It sounds worse than it really is.  
> I'm not suffering from clinical depression or something.  
> In fact I'm getting meds for a recently discovered genetic defect that causes my adrenal gland to send contradictory signals to my brain, resulting in a hormonal imbalance like you would not believe and mood swings like you have during your worst periods. That combined with almost constant arousal (partly thanks to you and your stories, Atlin) is a potent mixture.
> 
> But it's fine. It's all fine.

 

 

 

 

Sometimes I feel like screaming.

Usually whenever I have the pleasure to be in the same room as your brother.

Honestly, Sherlock. How you made it through your childhood without repeatedly punching the bastard I have no idea.

But then again maybe you did.

At least that would explain some things.  
  


 

 

Today I had the sudden realisation that your mobile phone must still be lying on the roof at Bart's where you tossed it before you jumped.

I don't know why it took me so long to remember this and why it occured to me this morning in the shower of all places, but I suppose it's because I'm an idiot.  
  
Oh, god.  
  


 

Anyway, I was a brave soldier today and finally approached the hospital for the first time since.

These past months I always made the biggest diversions around it because anytime I simply thought of seeing the building, that ledge, that pavement- it was too much to bear.

So today I decided that now was the time to tackle this particular fear.

Everything was fine (or at least bearable) until I was on the final steps towards the door to the roof.

I estimate that it took me a good two minutes to find the courage to open it.

But when I did I felt relief.

Strangely it was as if suddenly I was closer to you than before.

Because you walked through this door not five months ago.

You walked this ground.

And you had to face it all alone.

Just like me.

You stepped towards the ledge, peered down.

Just like me.

You stepped onto it, feeling the wind bat around your face as it started to rain.

Just like me.

And you stood there, with your phone at your ear, lying to me like there was no morning, goddamn crying because it broke your heart to break mine and then-throwing your phone to the side-you jumped.

Unlike me.

It was a haunting feeling to stand there and see what you saw.

Under different circumstances it would have been quite a superior feeling, being so high up, overlooking London and feeling the force of the weather.

But now it simply made me feel cold.

I turned to look over my shoulder, searching the area where your phone must have landed, finding nothing.

Confused and a little irritated I stepped down the ledge, took a breath of relief- because frankly, Sherlock, that is fucking high up the ground- and, feeling like Pluto searched the roof more thoroughly, at some point even going down to my knees, crawling to have a better view.

It must have looked so pathetic.

But I don't care.

It's what you would have done.

Though I have to admit even that would have looked good on you, you graceful bastard.

  
Finding nothing I stormed down the stairs again without as much as looking back when I marched past Molly in my most furious soldier-step.

The one that always, absolutely always scared the living shit out of disrespectful cadets.

 

I caught a cab to the Yard and burst into Lestrade's office, shouldering the chief superintendend aside simply for the fact that he 'existed' in my way towards the door and for arresting me after I (rightfully) chinned him.

His affronted look was priceless.

You would have loved it, dear.

 

 

Lestrade was in the middle of a telephone conference but seeing me practically fume in front of his desk he quickly ended it and asked what was wrong.  
  


 

_'Where is Sherlock's phone?'_

He gave me a blank look.

Now I know what you mean when you say 'vacant' because that was exactly what he looked like.  
  


 

_'His phone?'_  
  


 

_'Yes, his phone. He tossed it onto the roof before he jumped. It's not there, so where is it?'_

I demanded.

 

  
  
 _'I don't know, John. There was no phone when we checked the roof. There were only some shoe marks from Sherlock's ridiculous posh footwear. Apart from that there was nothing. Anderson was really thorough, believe me. He was very keen on doing the scene...'_

He gave me knowing look.

 

  
  
 _'But it must have been there! I saw him throw it behind him before he stretched his wings and-'_

My throat snapped shut.

Like my brain suddenly pressed the stop-button.  
  


 

Thankfully, Greg ignored it and continued:

  
_'There was no phone, John. I don't...I don't know, maybe you scrambled things up a bit. I mean, don't get me wrong...'_   
  


 

_'Save me from that. I know what you're trying to say. But you're wrong, Greg. Seriously. I am reliving every second of it again and again, while I am conscious and while I am_

_asleep. I know what I saw, because it burned itself into my memory. Just as I can still smell the petrol, the sand, the gunpowder and the fucking metal of the first aid kit when I_

_got shot. I can tell you what cars were in the lot in front of Bart's and that that bloody cyclist wore a beanie. Hell, I can even tell you what socks I wore that day! So don't give_

_me that look! Yes, exactly that one! I bet you can still perfectly remember the moment you shot someone for the first time. I'm serious, Greg, as my friend, don't give me that_

_face. I despise getting everyone's goddamn pity! I'm fed up with it! If there was no phone then I would like to know who secured the crime scene until you arrived, because_

_frankly, that idiot fucked up brilliantly. Someone took that phone and I advise you to make sure it wasn't one of your own people!'_  
  


 

_'John, if you are implying that one of my officers...!'_

He got angry.

Good.

Fine.

 

  
 _'I am not responsible with how you understand what I say. But I want that fucking phone! NOW! Someone took it and I want to know who and why!'_

I trembled.

I hadn't raised my voice like that in a while.

My head was probably red with rage.  
  


 

Greg regarded me for a moment.

Then he picked up the phone.

_'Anderson. I want to know who did the scene at Bart's... Yes, THAT scene! I want to know who was there first, who did forensics and where the evidence is stored...No, I don't need a reason to demand it. You go and get me that information or I'll note your sorry arse for a...good.'_  
  


He hung up.

My enraged face was lit up by a smile.

And Greg returned it.

  
  
_'I'll give you a call. Will take a while, I'm afraid. There's literally an entire room of evidence connected to Sherlock...'_   
  


 

I stared at him with a shocked and confused face. How much evidence did they gather about 'Richard Brooke'?  
  


 

_'No, no. Not what you think! Dozens of boxes with files from the cases he helped us solve and all that.'_  
  


 

Understanding and relief.

_'Thank you.'_  
  


 

Then I left.

On my way out a couple of Yarders stood up from their desks to have a better look at the man who had just pulled rank on their DI.

It was glorious.  
  
  
  
  
Unfortunately I was not even close to the station when a black Jaguar stopped in front of me.

With a sigh I opened the door and got in.

Your brother awaited me himself this time.

He was typing on his phone with the skill of a five year old and I couldn't help myself but ask him how the root canal had went.

For a split second he gave me a puzzled look, then he quickly regained his cold, detached composure and smiled.

 

_'I hear you made a bit of a fuss at the Yard, John.'_  
  


 

I stared at him.

Pursed my lips.

A bit.  
  


 

_'I'm sure Gregory Lestrade did not approve of your behaviour.'_  
  


 

_'Again, Mycroft. I don't think that any of it is even remotely your business.'_  
  


 

He looked affronted.

But again, only for a second.  
  


 

_'Your enquiries will lead you nowhere, Doctor Watson.'_  
  


 

I closed my eyes for a moment, trying to process the situation.

Cocked my head and looked at him again.  
  


_'Say again?'_  
  


 

That instant the car stopped and Mycroft climbed out of the back seat.

I quickly followed him.

Diogenes club.

Front door.

He approached the building and I followed right behind.

Upon entering the front room he turned his head so that I could see it as he placed a finger on his lips, indicating me that I wasn't supposed to speak again until we were in the confines of his office.

Like I had forgotten that.

Wanker.

 

 

As we entered his sanctum he closed the door quietly behind him and gestured for me to sit.

I remained on my feet.

Giving him a challenging look.  
  


_'You were saying?'_

I asked.  
  


 

_'I said, that your enquiries about my brother's mobile phone will not be very fruitful. You can save yourself the pains and I advise you to return to Baker street.'_  
  


 

He started to sort some papers on his desk.

Business as usual.

Like he wasn't just talking about his dead brother.

Or to his dead brother's best and only friend.  
  


 

_'And you think that such a vague and utterly useless advice is going to keep me from investigating?'_

I lifted my chin.

Aggresively.  
  


 

_'You should leave the investigating to the experts, John.'_

 

  
 _'Oh, now it's John again! You know what Mycroft Holmes...'_

I gave his name some extra weight.

_'...I would leave it to the expert, if the one expert I trusted the most would still be at my side.'_

 

  
  
Suddenly his head snapped up.

He looked at me with a genuinely shocked expression.

Finally I had him.

Or so I thought at least.  
  


 

_'I advise you again, John, to leave the subject and return to your quarters. I will let you know as soon as there is new information about the business.'_  
  


 

I didn't believe my ears.

I grit my teeth, squared my shoulders and drew a deep breath.

That earned me a confused look from your brother and a flash of pity crossing his face. 

 

That was it. 

There's only so much shit a trained soldier can take before his kill or get killed instict kicks in.

Or before he's tempted to punch the face of such a son of a...sorry, but- you know your brother.

I suppose I don't have to say more.  
  


I stepped forward to his desk.

Leaned onto both hands (to minimize the urge to actually use them) and looked at him long and with the most intimidating glare I could manage.

I didn't have to exaggerate it.

It was my genuine 'You're very lucky my mother raised me to be a decent human being' look.  
  


_'I dont care how high a rank you have in the British government, Mycroft Holmes.'_

 

That last bit I shouted.

_'I have a rank myself AND a degree, too. And I didn't earn mine for doing paperwork...'_

 

I confess that I didn't intend it to sound so disdainful.  
  


_'...I do respect the work that you do, Mycroft. But I risked MY LIFE trying to take care of the soldiers YOU sent out into a war that no one- no one I have fought with- really_

_understands. So don't try to be smart with me and don't you dare trying to shut me up you big, pompous, posh wanker. I am the one that took care of your brother when he was_

_in need of it the most. I dare you to tell me what to do!'_  
  


 

He returned my stare with an intensity that gave me a mild shiver down my spine.

He's not really intimidating physically, but I am not yet over the utopic idea of finding myself in a shallow grave one day because I pissed him off.  
  


 

_'Your care and attention have definately proved to be valuable to him, if only unsuccessful in the end.'_  
  


 

And that's the moment I punched him.

Hard.

I just simply couldn't hold myself back.

To have the nerves to imply that I failed you...

...that I wouldn't have done anything humanly possible to help you.

Save you.  
  


 

_'You utter bastard! You...'_

 

I breathed heavily.

I was so enraged I feared I might explode into a supernova and take the entire street down with me just for the sake of shutting his stupid, ugly, self-righteous face.  
  


_'John...'_

 

For an instant I feared he might actually try to apologize.  
  


 

_'No, shut up! I am so fed up with your shit! You Holmes brothers are such a manipulative bunch of idiots I can't...I can't...'_  
  


 

And then I fought back the tears.

For the first time in public.

And I almost failed.

My voice betrayed the turmoil within me.

Like a child that is so upset that my brain just couldn't handle all those different, antagonising emotions.  
  


 

_'I can't even be properly mad at you because I know you loved him and that you miss him just as much as I do, but that you deal with it in a different way and I might not approve of it, but..._

_...but that you regret what you did and did not do and what you would have liked to tell him in the end. I understand so painfully well, Mycroft, I-'_  
  


 

 _'You fell in love with my brother the moment you met him, John. Didn't you?'_

 

His voice was so calm and matter-of-factly like he had just stated that the weather in London often included rain.  
  


_'You knew?'_

I know.

Stating the obvious and all.  
  


 

_'It was obvious from the way you overrode your own moral principles within hours of your aquaintance with him- killing a man when you- with you remarkable weaponry and_

_marksmen skills- could have simply wounded and immobilised him, removing the threat he portrayed towards my brother. But you killed him, John. You didn't hesitate for a_

_second. It speaks for itself I would say, don't you think?_ '  
  


 

I gave him an absolute blank look.

Now I understand why you were so annoyed when you told me that your brother was acutally your superior at deductions. 

Then plain horror struck me like lightning. 

When Mycroft had noticed so clearly, from the very beginning- hell even before I knew myself- then had you, too?

Did you see, but just not observe?

Or didn't you understand?

Or simply not care at all?  
  


 

_'Dont worry, John. My brother was far too oblivious to notice your true state of emotions. He probably misunderstood your feelings towards him for genuine admiration. The_

_awe about his genius. He was no modest or humble man, my brother, you know that from first hand experience I presume, but he was very aware of his character's faults._

_Believe me John, when I tell you that, without a doubt, he was certainly not aquainted with the concept that another person could actually feel something resembling sincere love_

_for him. He never aquired any kind of...positive data on that kind of emotion during his adolesence and frankly I don't think he ever gave it a second thought once he was a_

_grown man. We both made our experiences when we were lads, each on his own and you can tell how it affected us and our personalities and the way we interact with other_

_people...'_  
  


 

He stared at his feet intently and he reminded me so much of a school boy who had just confessed his misbehaviour that I surpressed the urge to hug him.

I marvel at the speed of going from 'Let me punch the living shit out of you, you utter bastard' to 'I can't believe you never felt proper love'.  
  
I simply looked at him, still trying to process all this, when the door behind us opened and 'Anthea's' head appeared in the room.  
  


 

_'Jerusalem on line two, Mr Holmes.'_

 

She looked at him as if expecting orders.

Which she probably did.  
  


 

_'I'll be right there.'_  
  


 

She disappeared and Mycroft faced me once more.  
  


 

_'I guess, I'll go then. I'm sorry...about...the punch, you know. And your tooth ache. I'll leave you to start another war. Or...for a change. Why not stop one?'_

I gave him a hopeful smile. Hoped that humour would ease the tension.  
  


 

_'I'll see to it, John. Hopefully you'll be home before it starts to affect traffic.'_  
  


A light tug at my heart.

But it was alright.

I think you rarely catch Mycroft Holmes attempting to be funny.  
  


 

I nodded once more in his direction and left.  
  
On my way out I loudly asked _'_

_Anyone care for a pint?'_

and smiled broadly.

 

You can imagine the shocked faces.  
  


Suddenly I felt like myself again.

It was glorious.  
  


 

 

And checking for typo's just now, I realised that I actually called you 'Dear' for the very first time in this blog entry.

You have no idea what that makes me feel like...


	16. I owe you.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's getting stronger by the day.  
> Thank god.  
> Or Sherlock...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another short one (I think), but I think the next step of our journey deserves a chapter of its own.  
> We are getting there- I can feel it.  
> There is not so much more I have in mind for John alone- that's enough to be going on with, don't you think? =)

I could really get used to calling you 'my dear', you know.  
  


It's such a fleeting endearment, often not used in the way it's supposed to be used, with people you don't actually feel anything for in particular, but it feels so natural, so right

to address it to you, Sherlock.  
  


I don't think you would approve of me calling you 'love' or 'sweet' or even 'my darling', even if I would love to do so, but I'll stick with 'dear'.

Because it suits you just the same.   
  


Because you are.

Dear to me.

My dearest.  
  
  
  
I had a long and refreshing talk with Mary about it (yes, I finally managed- I seem to get better at it) and she was right when she told me to accept the situation as it is:  
  


My feelings for you.

The fact that you are dead. That you will never come back to me.

The knowledge that I will never feel about anyone else the way I feel for you.

The comfort of my memories. The time we had together.

The certainty that I will die with your name on my lips and that this time I will not be afraid.  
  


 

She really has become a very good friend.

It feels good to be able to talk to someone who really understands.

The gay, I mean.

I couldn't possibly talk to Greg or Mike about it.

I've been straight all my life- insisting on it, as you know.

To say so otherwise now would be...

I don't know.

Just kind of lame.

Like you are lecturing everyone on how unhealthy smoking is, only to turn out to be a chain smoker yourself years later.

Some kind of fake.

You know what I mean?  
  


I'm sure you would enjoy it how I used nicotin as a metaphor for you and my feelings.   
  
My addiction.  
  


Jesus, Sherlock.

If you were cigarettes I wouldn't quit you for all the money it would cost or cancers I would get in the world. 

And as a doctor I know how stupid that is.  
  


 

But anyway, Mary really has a good influence on me and I honestly enjoy the time we spend together.

It's nothing special, you know.

We go for a walk, have coffee, meet for dinner.

On tuesday I invited her over and we cooked some lovely italian.

I have never bothered myself with making pasta myself but seriously, dear, it's not only fun to make it, it's also super delicious!

Add a bottle of white wine, some fish and a stroke-inducing infused tiramisu and you're done for the day.

Which is the reason why she slept in my room while I collapsed onto the couch and we both woke only once Mrs Hudson made a fuss with some workers doing the electrics

downstairs the next morning.

After a lovely breakfast together (Martha, the saint that she is, had just popped some homemade bread rolls into the oven) and then parted our ways.

Mary later called me in a fit of giggles warning me how Mike noticed that she didn't get home last night and that I should brace myself for a chat with him.

I giggled.

And I did. 

And he called.   
  
And afterward I felt empty again. 

Because this is what thousands of people experience every day.

They are living a lie because they are too afraid to openly live their life, in fear of discrimination and hate.

They deceive the people close to them, their families and friends, in order to maintain a 'normal' lifestyle- fearing they might lose all of what is valuable to them for being

different. 

 

It makes me angry to think that we still live in a time where it's sometimes necessary to lie about who you are, who you love and deny to have to deny your own personality.

It shouldn't be a problem that men love other men or that women fall in love with each other.

It shouldn't be an issue to walk down a street holding hands or to brush a streak of hair out of your lovers face in public.

To hug when you feel like it while other people can see or to even share a fleeting kiss just because you need some physical affection in a moment of tenderness.

All this should be the most normal and ordinary things to see and do and yet we are still finding ourselves hiding in the shadows, forced into secrecy or shallow excuses to

remain acceptable members of society.

I know it's not all black and white and that there were some major achivements made in the past years (hell, even in conservative america gays gain more and more equality!)

but it still stings and feels awkward that I feel the need to keep my friends and family in the dark about it.

Of course Harry would understand best.

And she'd be the last person to judge me or dissaprove, but I don't want to add my tragedy to all the things she's got on her mind already.

I need to figure this out on my own.

I've come so far all on my own.

I'll get through this as well.  
  


Of course there is also Martha.

She is my rock in this turbulent sea.

She used the most adorable words I can imagine to describe our situation when she said:  
  


 

_'No matter how dark it gets, John, the light of your heart will always shine as long as the protective hands of your memories of him keep it alive and safe from the storms._

_And nobody has the power to extinguish that flame. Not even you yourself.'_   
  


 

And as she said it, I knew how much truth lay in those words.  
  
No power in this world will ever make me stop loving you.

With all that I have.

With all that I am.  
  
Not even your brother or all the Queen's horses (and I'm still not over the fact, that he actually seems to approve, or at least not...mind, dear god).  
  


 

They may laugh about me.  
  
They may mock me.  
  
They may insult me.  
  
They may torment me.  
  
They may dare to try.  
  
  
I won't run around the streets screaming it out to anyone-that would be a silly thing to do as it's far too intimate- as precious and personal as the beat of my heart- to share

with anyone but you.

It's nobody's business until I decide that it is.

But it won't keep me from publishing on my blog.

In the papers.

Calling in on the radio.

Storming into the goddamn BBC if I must in order to set the record straight about you.

I have already gathered some more information about 'Rich Brooke' and I am far from finished, I know.  
  


But I owe it to my one true love.

And my one true love will not be disappointed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally got my doctor's results today and now I know that my chromosomes are alright and my therapy is ongoing.  
> I'm glad that this is over and I have some sort of closure now, as you can imagine, the uncertainty was killing creativity somehow.


	17. From a distance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft pays a surprise visit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know if this is totally silly and cheesy or....not. But I needed something...soothing as I had a rough couple of days lately.  
> It somehow struck me like lightning- the story behind the ring Mycroft is seen wearing throughout the series.  
> I thought I'd give it a try.
> 
> Not much longer until the reunion-promise!
> 
> Also, my dear Atlin is moving to London as of today/tomorrow! She was so nice to me yesterday when I had some serious black mood and she always finds the right words to cheer one up, so I hope you have a pleasant flight and all goes well! Safe trip and maybe we'll actually see sometime later this year!

 

 

I don't know if it's possible to love and hate a person at the same time.

Theoretically I doubt it.

Practically your brother is a very good specimen for that hypothesis.

I remember the blazing glow of anger sitting deep inside my gut the first time I saw him after your death.

But what he did today...

I can't help myself but love him a little for what he did today.

I'm sure you would highly disapprove of it for being far, far, out of the galaxy sentimental, round and round the garden like a teddy bear-emotional but he really got to me today.  


 

I was about to head out to finally have a few pints with Mike again, when he announced himself with the familiar 'klonk' of his umbrella on the stairs.

I had absolutely no idea why he paid me a visit at half eight in the evening but the expression in his face muted any remark I may have made up in that moment.

He looked absolutely miserable.

Tired, insomniac and frustrated.

I asked what was wrong and set for making tea.

I gave him time to collect his thoughts and gather the courage for I know best that that's what you need most in such moments.

He simply slumped down onto one of the kitchen chairs and buried his face in his hands.

Then he sighed dramatically (I can see it's hereditary) and began to explain.

 

 

_'I owe you an apology, John.'_

 

 

I turned to look at him questioningly but with a hint of 'damn that's right, carry on'

 

 

_'What I did in the course of Moriarty's interrogation was...'_

He searched for a word studying the kitchen table.

Found none.

 

 

_'...stupid, dangerous, completely insane and absolutely horrific seeing the consequences it had?'_

He looked at me.

His face a mask of resignation.

 

 

_'Mycroft, I'm not going to tell you how it wasn't your fault and that it's all fine and that I wouldn't wan't to bang your head onto that table if I was just a little less decent, but it's not as if you pushed him down that roof with your own hands...'_

 

 

_'Close enough though, don't you think?'_

He interjected.

 

 

I stared into the distance for a second.

Trying to make up my mind whether I should really comfort him or let him know how I felt about it all up to the smallest little insults I had made up to address to him.

I decided that he is a Holmes in the end and that I can't apply 'normal' human measures of common sense.

He simply didn't think about the consequences at the time.

Just as you didn't so often.

 

 

_'Mycroft, there's no way you could have foreseen this. I mean, you knew him better than me, but even you couldn't expect him to be so affected by this whole ordeal. Clearly his_

_state of emotion was always a mysterious thing I never really understood but honestly- you shouldn't blame yourself for the influence Moriarty had on him. He decided to play_

_along in his game and he was himself surprised by the turns it took. No one of us was prepared for that final problem Sherlock just couldn't solve.'_

 

 

_'He would approve of your phrasing I would say.'_

A small smile appeared on his face.

 

 

The kettle clicked and I took a moment to pour the water into the mugs.

Then I turned, put one in front if him and took the seat opposite.

 

 

_'What happened today?'_

I asked and his eyes shot up from his cuppa.

 

  
 _'What makes you...?'_

He thought about it, thought better of it, and continued with the truth.

_'A man leapt off the roof of my office today. A distant co-worker. I met him once at a social event...'_

 

The way he pronunced those last two words made me giggle.

_'...he worked for the south american office. Dreadful businesses going on there. Reports of colleagues bullying each other and- surely you don't need to know the details.'_

_'This affected you quite seriously.'_

_'Of course it did. I saw him...lying there. It was dreadful.'_

 

 

I said nothing.

My face saying clearly enough 'been there myself'

 

 

_'It got me thinking, John. As your feelings for my brother...intensified after his death I decided you should havd this...'_

He took the golden ring off his finger.

 

 

_'It belonged to our father. After his death I inherited it. Sherlock didn't want to have anything to do with it as one can imagine...'_

He drifted off to a distant memory.

 

 

  
 _'I can't. I'm sorry.'_

 

 

  
 _'He didn't tell you... of course he didn't. It was far too traumatic for him. Dreadful day.'_

He paused.

I suspect he wasn't as unaffected as he wanted to appear.

 

 

  
 _'Our father committed suicide when Sherlock was only eight years old. He was a government official and always absolutely engulfed in his work. I never knew him doing anything than work from nine in the morning until late into the night, but then again my definition of 'night' was 'past watershed'. I was only 15 myself.'_

 

 

_'What happened? Burn out?'_

 

  
 _'Something of that sort. He never left a letter. All he left was his wedding ring on the night stand and this one...'_

He turned it around in his fingers.

_'...it belonged to our grandfather before and must have some sentimental value to our family. I took it as my mother kept his wedding band, naturally.'_

 

 

_'And now you want me to have it?'_

I didn't really grasp his intention yet.

 

 

_'I would have liked for Sherlock to have it and I offered it to him upon his thirtieth birthday but he refused to even own it. He was quite delicate when it came to this. If I am_

_honest, John, I want to pass it on to you as I can't bear to wear it anymore with another dead family member on myconsience now.'_

 

 

_'Don't say that. Don't even remotely make yourself responsible for that.'_

I looked at him intently.

_'I thank you for your honesty Mycroft, but I still don't see your point in giving it to me?'_

 

 

  
 _'You will forever be deeply attached to my brother, I have no doubt of that, John and as he didn't leave many posessions of any value-least not of a sentimental one to you- I_

_thought you would appreciate this-'_

He placed it in front of me on the table.

_'-as a token. Wether you just keep it somewhere in a drawer or if you actually decide to wear it I leave to you. But it would be a piece of our family and the closest thing to him_

_you could keep and feel on your very skin. Wherever you are, he will be with you then.'_

 

 

I stared at the tiny piece of gold in front of me.

Picked it up.

Weighed it in my hand.

 

 

_'This is a very personal gift to make, Mycroft.'_

I looked him straight in the eye.

 

 

_'That's the idea behind it. I know that you are a person that has a big heart. You clearly became a doctor because you really wanted to help people-because you care. Your emotions run deeply within you and I see how much you suffer still...'_

He took a sip from his tea. Gave me an appreciative nod.

_'I can't bring him back to you. And I can't offer you anything else- except for this. But I hoped you might appreciate the sentiment.'_

 

 

_'And take it as a form of apology?'_

 

 

_'That would be an unexpected, yet highly appreciated side effect, yes.'_

 

 

_'Then take it as that. Although you do see the ridiculousness of me wearing a ring for Sherlock. Like we had been married.'_

 

 

_'I must say I was rather dissapointed when there was no happy announcement coming forth after the first week of your co-habitation. Somehow this seems to set the record_

_straight.'_

He smirked.

 

I returned the grin with a snort of laughter.

Then a little, choked sob upon the memory of that night at the warehouse.

 

 

_'I'll wear it. Really, Mycroft. I love it. Thank you for this.'_

I held it up and stared into my mug.

 

 

_'May it remind you of the happy days you had with him.'_

 

He stood up and straightened his jacket.

 

 

_'I really don't know how I feel about this.'_

 

 

_'Take your time, Doctor Watson.'_

He picked up his umbrella, turned and made to leave.

Then he stopped.

 

  
 _'There is one more thing I wanted you to know John-'_

 

 

I looked at him expectantly, my mind already busy processing all the new input.

 

 

_'You are wrong if you believe I knew him any better than you. Quite the opposite I would say.'_

 

 

And with that he left.

And I stared at into the distance once more.


	18. For you only

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay I messed with my timeline.  
> 'I believe' is supposed to follow this...
> 
> You know this as the text from 'June'

I am a soldier.

 

I am a doctor.

 

The last people to lose their faith in a crisis should be soldiers and doctors.

 

And yet at times I find myself unable to know what to believe anymore.

 

No, scratch that.

Manifested deep down in the core of my heart I know that everything he told me, everything he did- for  
me- was entirely genuine and true.

And that the lies he set free upon that day on that rooftop died with  
him the moment he hit the ground.

 

He might have been vicious at times. Impolite and mean. But I am a grown man. I have dealt with  
enough people, enough different characters to know the difference between a truly foul personality and  
those that put up a charade to protect themselves from the dissapointment of the world.

 

And what a masterpiece of art his was.

 

The moment I met him I wasn't quite sure what to think.

 

He was as fast forward, energetic and confusing as he always would be. But the cold demeanor-that  
detachment he put up so easily to the public eye- he completely forgot about it in one of those first  
moments in 221b where he asked me if I was any good as a doctor and I had replied with a confident  
'yes'. It was there that I first saw that childlike curiosity and thrill about what he clearly already knew  
would become our friendship.

 

In many aspects my best friend was a grown man with the spirit of a child. The way he viewed the  
world-unaware of his surroundings or peoples reactions as he lost himself completely in his work- his  
game.

 

The uncertainty when it came to human feelings. Like he was yet to experience the many ups and  
downs and turnarounds that everyone experiences while growing up. Like he never knew how serious  
life could be- but at the same time so easily dealing with the most dreadful experience any human being  
can make- the horrors of death.

 

His brain was that of a genius.

But his heart was that of a child.

 

And that he put the responsibility of dealing with his emotions in me, that he always relied on my  
advice and guidance to understand what made people do or say certain things. It showed how much he  
was aware of his faults.

 

And that he wanted to change it.

 

Privately.

 

He wanted to grow up. And that makes him a better person than anyone else I have ever met. Probably  
even better than myself at times.

 

From the outside it appeared that he was completely unable to relate to the feelings of others. Oblivious  
to human compassion. But if anyone would have simply taken their time and looked closer- they would  
have seen what I was priviledged to witness for the little eternity that our friendship lasted.

 

If you think about it, it's obvious. And it pains me to use that exact word, I will never be able not to  
hear spoken in his voice whenever I think of it- Sherlock Holmes was curious about everything he  
didn't understand. What puzzled him.  
A complex mystery would always bring him the greatest of joy. And he would have been an idiot of  
first class had he been ignorant of the most precious mystery of humanity- human emotion.

 

He did not die as an idiot. The coldhearted prat and fake that the world and especially the press are so  
eager to see him as.

 

To me he died as a hero.

 

And to me he died as a child.

 

The world had brought him to a point where he doubted his own abilities.

 

The single purpose that he set his life up for.

 

He lost faith in the importance of his own existence.

 

And that makes the tragedy of it all so unbearable.

 

Because he was important to me.

 

Because I will forever be the only person to know the real Sherlock Holmes.

 

Because he let me.

 

He was my best friend and I'll always believe in him.


	19. I believe...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I rushed to the hospital and found Greg standing there with sagged shoulders, on the brink of tears, so utterly confused about how to feel in this situation with everything crashing down on him in just one second.  
> I still believed the words Mycroft said to me then.  
> And then everything changed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After I wrote a kickass first draft of this chapter on my phone's notes only to see it crash and silently delete it and unsuccessfully trying to recover it with at least two different softwares I had no other choice than to write it anew.  
> I think I did well.  
> I think it's even better than the draft.
> 
> I think I broke my own heart.

_'You are wrong if you believe I knew him any better than you. Quite the opposite I would say.'_   
  


 

Those words still ring in my ears.

And I actually believed them.

For a few hours I actually believed them.

And then I got this phone call.

 

A highly upset Greg Lestrade telling me that Mycroft's car had been involved in an accident.

Another car running right into its side at full speed.

Serious injury.

Emergency surgery.

Prepare for the worst.

 

I rushed to the hospital and found Greg standing there with sagged shoulders, on the brink of tears, so utterly confused about how to feel in this situation with everything

crashing down on him in just one second.

I still believed the words Mycroft said to me then.

And then everything changed.

 

And my heart fell to ashes as I heard the familiar 'klonk' of an umbrella and a rushed _'Gregory!'_ from a distance.

And when realisation dawned upon Greg's face after the confusion and joy had made place for other emotions I simply stood.

Staring in the direction of the doors that led to the surgery.

Knowing that another body lay in there.

Another familiar body carrying the name 'Holmes' and the absurdity of it all was just too much to grasp.  
  


 

I believed those words.

And I would believe them still if you wouldn't be lying in a hospital bed just four floors beneath me.

I dashed.

Dashed away at the sight of you.  
  


 

Mycroft explained how you called him just this morning.

Told him that you were very much alive and on your way home and that he should have a car prepared to pick you up and take you home.

That your first priority was to get to Baker street.

To me.  
  


 

They wouldn't tell Greg any details.

'He's not family' they would claim.

They only told him that the paramedics pulled a seriously injured and unconscious man from the car and identified him by a torn airline ticket stub they found with the body that only read 'HOLM'.

The driver was dead upon the scene and so they couldn't possibly know that Mycroft Holmes was very much alive, sipping brandy with a turkish diplomat at the Diogenes club trying to distract himself from the knowledge that his baby brother just reappeared from the dead.  
  
They only offered any information when Mycroft proved his relation to you and introduced me as a doctor and discreetly nodding towards the ring I am wearing.

I didn't object about the false impression he made about my own relation to you, too eager to learn about your condition and far too numb to form any clear thought or even word.

 

  
I believed those words.

But now I have no idea if any of them were ever right.

I believed that I was your friend.

I believed that I meant something to you.

More than your own brother.

More than your own flesh and blood.

I believed that the man I fell in love with died six months ago and lay buried beneath a tree in grave that I have visited so often.

I believed that I would never see you again.

And I never ever wanted to see you like this, Sherlock.

 

That's why I ran.

Ran away to the top floor of this hospital to sit in a waiting room amongst all those other people, relatives desperately waiting for news about a loved one, when I already know how you are.

And where.

And that you are going to survive.

 

I am writing down the thoughts and feelings that I just can't wrap my mind around.

I can't grasp them.

 

I don't know how I feel.

I don't know how I feel about you anymore.

I hate you, Sherlock.

I hate you for deceiving me like this.

For letting me believe that you were dead.

Gone.

Forever torn away from me.

Forever out of reach.

I hate you for putting me through this.

For giving me so much pain, Sherlock, that it almost drove me insane.

Almost made me do something unforgivable.

 

And yet I can't hate you.

Deep down inside me I know that I could never hate you.

That my brain is simply unable to process the shock.

The shock of suddenly facing the one thing I wished for so desperately, with such intensity that it's now threatening to tear me apart from the weight of relief.

The heavy mass of salvation almost crushing me and at the same time making me so light-weighted as if I'm floating above the ground.

It's choking me.

Like an invisible power filling up my lungs and hands of steel wrapping around my heart, gradually increasing pressure until nothing but dust remains.  
  


 

I believed those words.

And I still do.

But I'm afraid, Sherlock.

So afraid.

Not of your injuries or the prospect of your survival.

I know that you'll be fine in time gone by.

I'm afraid of the man that's going to wake up.

Fully wake up and the look he might have upon his face.

The look of rejection and dissaproval.

Of realising that- whatever it was that you were doing- came to a sudden end, unplanned, leaving you powerless for probably months to come.

I know how much you hate unfinished business.

And I fear the frustration you'll feel seeing me.

The living proof that whatever you tried to do failed.

And you are once more back at the beginning.

With a broken soldier and your own physical inabilities to deal with.

I am afraid of your face for it won't be the way I remember it.

And I'm afraid of the consequences it will have when you wake up and realise that the one thing you managed to mutter, on the brink of consciousness- with your mind barely awake- was my name.

It took effort.

It hurt.

And yet you said it.

And when you did your voice was rough and it must have left you in excrutiating pain.

Because I know what it feels like after being extubated.

I know how sore and raw your throat feels.

I know how every word is like razor blades and thorns inside of your neck and although you desperately want to make your discomfort known, you are left with making indignant noises of frustration and despair.  
  
I'm afraid of the moment when you realize that almost every bone in the left side of your body is broken.

Your upper arm and shoulder restrained in a position that can only be utterly uncomfortable once you consciously experience it.

Your femur broken in so many places that they had to fit a dozen nails into the bone to stabilize it.

And almost four pints of donated blood that must put the final strain on your system as they tried to balance blood loss from your ruptured femoral artery.  
  
I fear the moment you become aware of your own vulnerability.

And that it will leave you so frustrated, so painfully aware that you'll need help even for the simplest tasks of daily life for months to come, that you'll lash out as you used to do whenever physically uncomfortable and that your desperation will keep you from seeing how much I long to be there when you need me.  
  
I fear the memory that all that kept you alive for the past 24 hours was a life support machine plucked into the wall and a plastic tube shoved down your throat.

That all it would have taken for you to die was the failure of 230 volts and the apparatus that kept your chest rising and falling peacefully in an artificial mode of breathing.

That you could have died again.

For real this time.

And that it all would have started over.

I'd have to go through it all again.

And I am not sure I could have survived it a second time.

 

  
I'm afraid.

As afraid as I have never been in my life.  
  
But I believe the words.

I still do.

Because you came back.

For whatever reason.

You came back to London.

You demanded a car to bring you to Baker street first thing upon landing.

You knew I'd be there.

 

So I believe.

And I hope.

Though I cannot possibly know for sure.  
  
That the man I fell in love with still exists.

That my Sherlock is still alive inside of you.


	20. Where it leads us.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The very last bit of John's POV. From here we'll jump back a bit, between him and Sherlock because I'll have to explain how they get to read each others journals and then resolve this entire mess...  
> So please stay tuned!!!

You asked why I still don't talk to you.

This should give you an idea why.

I included the full text of my last blog entry of which I only posted the last line.

And I included my experience of how I found out that you are still alive.

This is my heart and soul laid bare in front of you, Sherlock.

After reading this you will hopefully understand that my lack of spoken words is the payback for the unbearable silence you left me with.

You have no idea what it was like to suddenly have to live without you.

I hope this will make you see.  
And that you observe, you idiot.

We'll see where this leads us from here...

Yours truly (forever),  
John


End file.
